


Playing with Fire

by greysynonyms



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Achievement Hunter Heists, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Angst, Asphyxiation, Assassination, Beating, Biting, Branding, Burning, Conflicting Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Fluff, GTA AU, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Heists, Hurt/Comfort, I'm GTA Ryan trash, Kidnapping, Love Triangles, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drugs, References to Drugs, Rough Sex, Scars, Sexual Tension, Torture, Trauma, Unsafe Sex, Waterboarding, Whipping, alcohol consumption, dub-con, flaying, marijuana reference, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: You live a life of crime in Los Santos, and you've been working solo as long as you can remember. When a certain masked criminal suddenly makes a whirlwind of your life, you're thrown into more chaos, excitement, and danger than you could ever imagine. What will happen when you begin a dangerous tango with two of the Fake AH Crew's finest?





	1. Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basic introduction stuff. Welcome to my story.

       You sit in an unmarked black car four blocks away from a bank whose name you don’t care about in the middle of Los Santos. Your breathing is ragged, your chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven rhythm. You slam your hands against the wheel for what could have been the fifth time and feel the sting of the leather against your palms. You hadn’t even _started_ to collect your winnings. The safe was open when the alarms began going off inside the building; not soon after you heard the distinct sound of sirens in the distance. You rapidly stuffed as much as you could carry into your duffel-bags and chose not to stick around any longer than that, even if it meant leaving the rest of the money behind. You can still hear gunshots ringing out through the air. You sigh heavily and turn the key, speeding away from the scene before the cops come looking for you.

  
        After all, it was pretty clear that the caliber work that had been performed to slip in without surveillance noticing, knock out the cameras, and successfully open the safe door was _not_ in fact something that the Fake AH Crew ever would have been able to do so smoothly. You silently hope that that ridiculous crew gets what they have coming to them after ruining your operation like that. You always try to avoid them--too reckless, too messy, always getting cops involved and leaving bodies behind-- but it seems your luck has run out. They’re so insignificant that you forgot to even check with your intel where they would be tonight. Your bad, you suppose.

  
        You take all the back-roads to your safe-house, occasionally stopping to make sure you aren’t being followed. You're not, of course. You drive an innocent looking car and you have an innocent looking face and the way you bat your eyes at the police officers on the street during the day have them all wrapped around your little finger. The thought makes you smile. If only they knew.

  
        You like to consider yourself an independent contractor around the city, and you offer your services to those who are willing to pay. You do all of your business behind black screens or through burner phones; no one knows your face, and they never will. They call you _Princess_ around Los Santos, and people fear the crown. You heard rumors once that the nickname comes from the high price you charge for your work, and heard on another occasion that it’s because you’re untouchable like royalty. Either way, you like it. You like what you do on most occasions, mostly robberies and gathering intel, but you do get contracted for the occasional assassination. You’ve always considered yourself morally grey, but something about killing someone never sits well in your stomach. At least, not until you’ve been paid your proper sum.

  
        You pull into your garage, grab your duffel-bags, and swiftly take the elevator up to the fifth floor. You check the hallway to make sure it’s empty and then you head to your room as quickly and quietly as you can. You had contemplated once the idea of buying the floor, but considered it a waste of money and much too suspicious. If you were to do something like that you would need to own the whole building, to own a building you would need contracts with electric and water managements--the whole thing got too convoluted at that point. So you own a room, and you’re very careful to make sure no one sees you move in and out of it.

  
        Once you’re inside you move to the guest bedroom and throw the bags on the bed. After making sure all your blinds are down and curtains are closed you dump out the contents and begin looking at what you hadn’t had time to look at in the bank. Seeing the pile makes stomach bile rise in your throat; it’s such a small amount of loot compared to what you could have had. You’ll make sure the Fake AH Crew regrets getting in your way, and you think you’ll do it by stealing from them what you hadn’t been able to steal due to their interruption. You smile at the thought as you begin separating bills in neat little piles on the bed.

  
        You’re rapt in counting your earnings, and mentally planning your revenge, when you hear a knock at the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, guys. I've had several pieces of a GTA AU written for a long time but I never had an introduction for it until now.


	2. Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, things got steamy.

       You freeze when you hear the knock on the door--apparently you're not as careful as you like to think you are. As quickly as you can you stuff the loot you had gathered into the duffel-bags and unceremoniously kick them under the bed. You pull the sheets on the bed back into place and take a step back to make sure it looks natural--as natural as an unused room in a two bedroom apartment owned by one person can look anyway.  After your little escapade-gone-wrong, and after you had managed to sneak away from the scene and back to the safe-house, you opted to hide out there for the night rather than risk your ass by leaving again. You're pretty sure no cops followed you on your way out of the city, but, you suppose, you can never be a hundred percent sure with the Los Santos police department. Another knock at the door, angry and demanding. You slowly walk out of the bedroom and close the door as quietly as you can before making your way to the front door, cursing at the fact that the door lacked any kind of peep-hole—or that you hadn’t had the time recently to install a camera. You make a mental note to change that if you ever make it out of this. There's another knock then, loud and aggressive, the force behind the blows shaking the door. You bite your lip to stop yourself from snapping at the unknown person for assaulting your door like that. Whoever they are it’s become abundantly clear that they aren’t leaving.

       You reach to your collar and pull the black half-mask you wear during jobs up over your face, then pull your hair into a messy ponytail at the back of your head. Reaching behind yourself you pull the handgun out of your belt and grip it tight as you pull open the door. You expect a cop. What you _do_ _n’t_ expect is to come face to face with a shotgun. Your eyes follow the large hands that hold the gun, across the black and blue jacket and eventually to the eerie black skull mask that stares back at you. “Oh, it’s _you_ ,” you speak with contempt. You recognize the mask immediately and it has you gripping your gun tighter. “What are you doing here? You and your boys really fucked up my plans for the night, y’know.”

       The man takes a step forward, forcing you to take a step back, and then kicks the door shut behind him. “Cameras?” he questions, his voice deep and gravely from some combination of exhaustion and excitement.

       “There might be,” you answer him snottily, and just to make a point you raise your nose into the air as well. They don't call you Princess for nothing.

       He cocks his gun, aiming it right at your stomach. “ _Cameras_?” he hisses again, clearly not in the mood for your attitude.

       You suck in a sharp breath, a small spark running down your spine. “No. No cameras. You know I don’t _do_ cameras.” You make another mental note _not_ to install a camera after all.

       A nod. “Drop your gun.”

       You hold your ground, aiming the barrel of your pistol right between his eyes. “Not before you drop yours, big guy.”

       The sound of the shotgun hitting the tile floor is earth shattering in the silence that had enveloped you. Faster than a blink the man has you shoved against the wall, his gloved fingers snug around your throat. “You always look so pretty like this,” he speaks, reaching up and lifting the bottom of his mask just enough to expose the lower half of his face.

       You swallow thickly as you look him over. You've never seen the man’s face fully before—hell, now that you think about it, you have no idea what any of the Fake AH crew looks like. Sure you have the intel available to find most, if not all, of them, but it has never interested you to know. As long as they keep to their own business you're perfectly fine with leaving them be. A slap to your face rattles your brain and brings your focus back to the man in front of you all at once. Your eyes follow the line of his jaw, noticing the uneven ridge of facial hair against the black paint face-paint he always wears under the mask. God, how many times has it been now that you've stared at that jaw? _Too many_ , the better part of your mind supplies all too fast.  You lift your hand, digging the barrel of the handgun that you still hold into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “I’ll have you know that I have a date tomorrow night. You’re not allowed to touch my face tonight,” you warn, digging the cold metal into his skin just a little further for added effect. If you're being honest with yourself, you're still pissed off that he got in the way tonight. Not that you're going to call things off, no, but you _could_ make it a little harder for him to get what he wants. 

       A deadly little smirk plays across his lips. “Act as though you can tell me what to do again and I’ll make sure you won’t be leaving this safe-house at all tomorrow.”

       You try to deny the way that his response makes blood rush to your face and your thighs clench together. When you begin to drop your arm, he catches your wrist in a tight grip, pressing the gun back into the flesh of his neck even harder than you had been.

       “Keep it,” his voice rumbles. The hand around your throat is quick to rip the mask away from your face, and he's quicker to replace the cloth that had been around your neck with his mouth, all teeth, strategically placed bites that are sure to leave dark colors on your pale skin. “This is always in the fucking way,” he mutters ruefully, tugging none-too-gently on the collar of your black turtleneck as the advances of his mouth are halted.

       “You’re talkative tonight,” you breathe with a laugh, moving your handgun so that you can press the flat of the barrel against his windpipe. “I think I’m finished with appetizers, if you don’t mind.” What you can see of his blue eyes through the paint and the mask grow impossibly darker. Hard hands on your hips spin you around and then you find yourself with your face pressed against wall, cool, practically cold, against the flush of your cheeks. It's so sudden and jarring that the gun slips from your hand and clatters to the floor. You feel a hand on the back of your head and then a tug as he cards thick fingers through your hair and yanks out the hair-tie none-too-gently. You relish in the burn that sears across your scalp and a small noise of want escapes your lips without your consent. 

       He chuckles close to your ear and then his teeth are sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder and his hips are pressed tight against your ass, letting you know just how _impatient_ he is as well. With one hand he reaches around and grasps your jaw, wrenching your head up to leave your neck exposed to him, and with his other he yanks at your black pants until they slide down your hips. "Did we really **fuck** up your night so bad that you can't even defend yourself anymore?" he asks condescendingly, kicking the dropped gun away, far out of reach now. "Poor little _Princess_ , so defenseless."

 

       His voice is doing dangerous things to your body. You _hate_ that he knows you, knows your face and your body. He's the only person in Los Santos who can match you to your alias and that in and of itself should warrant your killing him, but you can't bring yourself to do it. The late-nights trysts are too good, and if he hasn't revealed who you are yet why would he anytime soon? That's how you reason the situation to yourself, at least. You open your mouth to reply, to say _anything_ , but all you manage is a gasp as the hand on your jaw slips around your throat once more and _squeezes_ hard enough that you're seeing spots. Another sharp tug has your pants and panties pooling around your ankles, and the coldness you feel between your thighs is testament enough to how wet you are. You flush brightly, your hands scrambling for purchase against the wall and finding nothing. You decide to dig your nails into your palms instead. The hand on your throat lets up just enough for you to gasp in a lungful of air.

       "What if it hadn't been me at the door?" the masked man asks conversationally. "Would you have spread your legs just like this for anyone?"

       You hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down and it makes goosebumps flutter over your skin. "M-maybe I was expecting someone else," you curse the stutter in your voice.

       He hums. His hands find your hips and his fingers tighten to the point of pain around your skin. "Something makes me doubt it." He slides his cock against your slick folds and makes a noise of appreciation in the back of his throat. "Look how wet you are for me."

       You _don't_ cry out when he fills you with one hard thrust, but the whine that makes it past your lips earns you a little grunt of satisfaction from the man behind you. He gives you no time to adjust as he uses his foot to kick your legs further apart. He's ruthless and you love it, even when your face and neck begin to hurt from being pressed so roughly to the wall and your hips begin to ache from his grip. He leaves one hand on your hip as he reaches around and mercilessly twists your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. You cry out when that same hand rakes blunt nails across your ribs hard enough to break skin. Everything is raw and painful, from the bites he leaves on your neck to the force of his hips against your ass as his thrusts become erratic. You feel with vivid clarity every bite, scratch, and slap that he leaves on your skin, and your nerves scream out with a sick mixture of pain and pleasure. You never want it to stop.

       It doesn't last long. Adrenaline is high from the heist at the bank and you soon feel his release hot across your lower back. You're sure he's ruined your shirt, but you don't care. Your legs are too weak and your head is too foggy and you slide down the wall until you're panting on your knees. You don't watch as he tucks himself back into his pants and pulls the mask back down over his face. You're sure that he's sweating and that his makeup is smeared and might give you a better look at his face, lower half or not, but you're just too tired to care. You don't move from your spot until you've heard him pick up his shotgun and open your front door. 

       "Until next time," his deep voice resonates through the silence of your apartment, and then the door closes and he's gone. 

       You turn your head and notice a large black bag sitting near your door. You crawl your way over to it, your body protesting the entire way, and find that the bag is filled to the brim with cash. A note on the top reads in sloppy hand-writing " _your share_ ". 

       You smile.

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash.


	3. Morning After Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickens.

       You stare with narrowed eyes at the low-cut, black dress with the high slit in the leg. It hangs mockingly in your closet, the rest of your clothes pushed to the sides to leave it untouched and unwrinkled. It fits you _so well_ , you bought it just for the occasion, and now you can’t wear it.

       You had woken up on the floor of your safe-house at six in the morning with your body absolutely hating you. The trip from your safe-house back to your apartment had been hell; every movement made some part of your body ache. The pain meds you downed are helping, but you doubt there’s enough alcohol in the world to dull the shame you feel. Splotches of red and purple litter your neck and collarbones, and the outline of teeth haven’t yet faded from some of the spots. Your ribs and waist and back are mapped with red scratch marks that criss-cross in obscure patterns across your skin, and your hips and ass are bruised purple and green in the shape of _his_ hands. Your hair is knotted from _his_ grip, and your face is a little swollen where _he_ had slapped you. Almost every part of your body carries a reminder of last night.

       And you have a date tonight.

       Part of you thinks-- _hopes_ \--that the fast-paced events of the previous night had made the Vagabond forget about your warning. Then again, he never touched your face again after that first slap (you had walked away from your _sessions_ with busted lips and bruised eyes before on nights with no warnings), so you have a feeling that the marks on your body are purposeful, some kind of twisted form of possession maybe. It gives you chills.

       You turn your glare from the dress to the black bag he had left. Every single piece of paper inside it is a _one_ dollar bill. There's no way it was an accident. If you have to guess. the total is probably around three-thousand dollars, give or take. It isn’t **enough.** And the fact that he had the audacity to leave you one dollar bills like some kind of street whore makes your blood boil. The next time you see him you'll make sure to return his _petty cash_ along with a well-deserved ass-kicking.

       You swear to never fool around with him or his stupid crew ever again.

       After you rob them blind, of course. Fair's fair. They get in the way of your heist and then have the balls to offer you barely a _fraction_ of what you could have had? At first you only wanted to take from them what you were owed, but now you want to take everything. You don’t even care if it was the Vagabond’s own agenda to give you the money, his crew would pay for the slander on your name.

       You slam your closet doors and turn to your bed where you had laid out your new dress for the night. You had bought it earlier in the day after realizing (with no small amount of contempt) that the hickies covering your flesh were too dark to be covered with just makeup. It's a deep green dress, short and form-fitting--thank goodness he hadn’t left any marks below your upper thighs--and it has pretty lace sleeves and a high neckline. The lace makes it look more elegant than the black dress you wanted to wear, but it isn’t nearly as sexy. That's okay though, you suppose.

       You had met your date at a dive-bar a few weeks ago. When he drunkenly slipped you his number you were convinced that you wouldn’t be texting him at all, but there was something oddly charming about him that wouldn’t leave your mind in the days that followed. Not to mention he was a great drinking partner, if that night was anything to go by; you had never seen anyone put down so much whiskey and still speak coherently. You had cautiously texted him after three days, and you were pleasantly surprised by how much you actually _enjoyed_ talking with him. For as long as you can remember you've been a lone fox with no interest in any kind of relationship that isn’t your relationship with cash. Sure you occasionally flirt with men until you become bored of them, and sure you have had your fair share of nights with the Vagabond, but those situations never involved any feelings. Instead they served purpose: to keep you entertained, to get you money, or to satisfy your libido. This isn’t any of that. When he asked you out to dinner you agreed simply because you wanted to see him again.

       For the first time in a long time you actually feel _nervous_ for something, and as time continues to tick by you can’t stop bouncing your legs and looking for little things to keep you occupied around the apartment. The last time you remember feeling nervous was your first assassination job--after that day it takes a lot to rattle you. You feel silly getting nervous for such a simple event when you can kill a man without much thought anymore. You also feel excited. The only thing that could make the night better is if you hadn’t been such an _idiot_ and slept with that stupid, masked asshole.

 _Never again,_  you remind yourself.

       You avoid looking at your body when the time comes to change. The dress fits you like a glove, showing off your legs and the expensive heels you choose to wear. You have to put on more makeup than usual to hide some marks and swelling, but you doubt he’ll be looking too hard at anything other than your bright red lips. You leave your hair down, grab a black clutch, and discreetly slip a switchblade into the compartment of your garter to complete your ensemble. You hope you won’t need the knife, but better safe than sorry. You check yourself out in the mirror until the time you agreed on, making sure your outfit is perfect. It is, you look good and it makes you smile. You lock everything up, double check your locks, and then head to the elevator.

       You had given your date the name of the building you lived in, against your better judgement. You didn’t give him an apartment number, but he had insisted upon picking you up and would not take no for an answer. You feared it would have seemed suspicious had you kept telling him no. Besides, why shouldn’t you be able to give your address to a nice suitor? It's actually flattering that he wants to pick you up for your date rather than meeting you there. Sure your line of work is dangerous, but no one knows your face-- _except one man,_  your mind helpfully supplies. You ignore the thought. If you want to see someone you're damn well going to, and anyone who tries to stop that will rue the day.

       You don’t immediately see his car--or a car that _looks_ like his car, considering you have no idea what he drives--in the street, so you assume he’s running a little late. Very like him. It’s not until you see lights flash that you realize that he is, in fact, already waiting for you a little way down the street. You approach the vehicle slowly, in awe of what you’re seeing. _It has to be rented, right?_ You walk up to the door of the shiny, black Zentorno and it opens for you on it’s own in one smooth motion. You hear his chuckle before you see his face.

       “Are you fuckin' surprised enough?” his voice is light and full of amusement, surely from the look on your face as you duck into the car more expensive than quite a few years worth of rent.

       You meet his blue eyes and smile wide, “Where the hell did you get this, Geoff?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I've never actually played GTA. Or at least, I haven't in a long time. Is the Zentorno as awesome as I think it is still? Because I'm just rolling with it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff, fluff.

       You are fucked.

       You are so, so, _so_ fucked.

       Geoff held the car door for you and offered you his arm as you walked into the restaurant; he even placed his hand over yours where it nestled into the crook of his arm. He had a bottle of red wine (a french name, obviously fancy, probably _way_ too much money) waiting at the table for you, a lone table on a beautiful balcony he reserved that overlooked the city lights. He insisted on paying for your meal while telling you stories about how he was an unofficial five-star chef, self proclaimed. He told you over candle-light that he would love to cook for you _next time_.

       Basically, Geoff Ramsey is fucking perfect. A real life Prince Charming.

       You sip your wine while you wait for your dessert to arrive and let your eyes skim appreciatively over the man in front of you. He’s telling a story about almost shitting his pants once and laughing so hard between words that his eyes are crinkled in the corners and wet with tears. His third whiskey of the night sits half-full on the table with his tattooed fingers wrapped around the glass. It reminds you of the night you met him, drinking together and telling stories that _should_ be embarrassing with the enthusiasm of two school kids. Except on the night you met him he was wearing a simple dark t-shirt and jeans covered in stains. He looked _great_ then, but the black suit and crisp white undershirt he's wearing now looks like it was **made** for him. His hair is just as unruly as it was that night, and his stubble has grown into a fuller beard now and it really suits him. You don't realize he finished telling his story until your gaze settles on the smirk that plays on his lips.

       "Like what you see?” he asks with a little chuckle.

       Your face instantly blooms with color and you quickly swallow down the rest of your wine. “I guess you’re okay,” you respond coyly, “for an older guy.” He laughs loudly, clearly not expecting the small burn, and you laugh along with him.

       “You’re fucking blushing but you still have the balls to hit me with that,” he teases. “No wonder I like you.”

       Your stomach flutters. You feel ridiculous, acting like a little girl with a crush--this is exactly why you don’t date. One of the reasons at least. You worry your lip between your teeth when reminders of how risky this night is flood your mind; Geoff could get seriously hurt if someone on your bad side finds out who you are, and the list of people on your bad side is extensive. The last thing you want is for him to get hurt. You notice he's looking at you with confusion in his blue eyes. You finally remember that you still need to respond but before you can the waiter interrupts you when he brings out your dessert.

       It’s a chocolate cake that was prefaced with words like “ _gourmet_ ” and “ _decadent_ ” on the menu, and, you notice, it only comes with one fork. You move to motion for the waiter, to ask for another one, when Geoff reaches forward and lifts the utensil with nimble fingers. He takes a small piece from the cake and offers the fork forward for you, eyes gleaming mischievously. You know he doesn’t want you to take the fork from him, especially as he places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand in a casual manner, grinning at you as you contemplate what to do. You lean forward and let your lips wrap around the fork, matching his gaze the entire time.

       “Good?” he asks with a smile.

       “Very good,” you nod. You aren’t lying, it's probably one of the best pieces of cake you’ve ever had--a perfect compliment to your wine. You wonder if he planned that. You share the fork with Geoff, letting him feed you every other bite until the cake is gone.

       He pays for dinner, just like he had insisted he would, and asks you if you’d like to go on a walk as you leave the restaurant. You feel the tingle of your conscious reminding you that a walk is an even worse idea than dinner, but you’ve been making plenty of bad decisions lately so you just ignore it and agree.

       He offers you his arm again. “Los Santos is pretty damn dangerous at night,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

       You know that better than anyone, but feign your innocence and accept his offer. “You’ll protect me, right?” You give his arm a playful squeeze.

       “Hell no! I’m running away if someone jumps us!” he protests, then winks at you.

       The two of you walk the city streets, bathed in the ugly glow of streetlights and the occasional neon-lights from the nearby shops. You don't pay attention to the streets or the people or the passing cars. Your eyes are all for him as you tell each other stories of your childhood and your friends and anything else that comes to your minds for what seems like hours; you don’t mention your job, and he doesn’t mention his.

       “What are you afraid of?” you ask him suddenly.

       “Do you really want to know?”

       It’s a strange question and it makes you that much more curious. “Yes, I want to know.”

       “Fuckin’ snakes.”

       You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. Geoff doesn’t **look** like he’s afraid of anything, much less _snakes_. It’s adorable and endearing and you’re very, very glad that you asked.

       “Alright, alright, smart guy! What the hell are you afraid of then, huh?”

       “Absolutely nothing,” you reply with a grin. “I’m totally impervious to fear.”

       “Bullshit.”

       "No, really. I've never felt fear ever."

       "You're full of shit, you know that? C'mon, I told you what I'm afraid of."

       He sounds so _genuine_ that you actually feel a little bad for making fun of him. “Okay, well, I’m afraid of going broke,” you admit honestly. You immediately wish you had kept your mouth shut. You had lived most of your childhood in poverty and had done things in your teenage years that you were not proud of just for some pocket change, so you always hold a small amount of fear in the back of your mind that you will someday have to return to that pitiful state of being, but it’s not like Geoff needs to know that. Especially since a conversation about money opens a doorway to many more personal questions that you know you can’t answer. You basically just shot yourself in the foot.

       “Job not pay well?” he inquires, genuinely intrigued.

       “Yeah, something like that,” you lie through your teeth. “It’s not like I’m struggling with cash or anything, I just don’t like the idea of ever being financially unstable.” You pray he won’t push for any further information on the subject. Luckily, Geoff is a good ( _great, fantastic, etcetera_ ) guy.

       “Yeah alright, I get that.” He sounds thoughtful. “Not as scary as snakes though.”

       “I’m gonna go broke buying snakes to fill your apartment with,” you quip.

       He raises an eyebrow, “Are you implying I’ll tell you where I live?”

       “Who knows?” You give his arm a little squeeze. “I mean, you _did_ say that you like me.”

       He smirks down at you and he looks like he’s going to say something, but a cell phone ringing breaks the silence around the two of you. Geoff reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone, looking annoyed. He checks the caller ID and answers it. “What do you losers want?” You watch as his expression turns from annoyed to worried. “Well I’m kinda fuckin’ busy.” He runs his hand through his hair haphazardly. “ _Fuck_ ….yeah," his voice cracks a little and you find yourself thinking that it's cute, "I’ll be right there.” He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and sighs.

       “Everything okay?”

       “Yeah, just dumbass business stuff,” he assures vaguely.

       “Too bad.” You slip your hand back around his arm and the two of you begin walking back towards the restaurant. “I was having such a good time.”

       “Flattery will get you nowhere, young lady.”

       You bat your eyelashes at him, “Are you sure?”

       The walk back to the Zentorno is too fast, and the ride back to your apartment is even faster and tensely silent. It’s such a stark contrast to the rest of the night that you find yourself worrying more and more about whatever business it is that Geoff has. The phone call had certainly sounded less than pleasant. You doubt he'll tell you if you ask so you keep your mouth shut on the matter. You give him a small smile when he parks in front of your building. “Thank you for dinner, Geoff. Text you soon?”

       He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Don’t forget that I’m making food next time.”

       “I’ll look forward to it.” The door of the car opens for you and before you know it you’re standing alone on the sidewalk. Your chest feels tight. The night had been so good and now it felt like reality was crashing back down on top of you. Really, what did you think was going to happen? You just wanted a moment of escape, a moment to indulge yourself for once, but it’s not like you won’t be Princess tomorrow morning when you wake up. You chose this life for yourself and now you have to live with it. That means no personal indulgences, no relationships, just constant work until everyone who knows your name ( _everyone in Los Santos, that is_ ) is dead and gone. If you were really smart you wouldn’t ever see Geoff again; if you really cared about him you wouldn’t put him in danger. If you were a truly good person you would text him right now and call everything off.

       You don’t do that.

       You _like_ Geoff. Despite your better judgement you have been charmed by him, by his laugh and by his stories, and you don't think it's something you should just let go.

       You're seriously so fucked. 

       But you should be allowed to like people, right? Hell yes you should. You’re human, it isn't a crime. And fuck _anyone_ who tries to hurt you, or him. You'll protect him. But...what if someone really tries coming after you? It has happened before; you have lost people who you trusted when things got sticky on a number of occasions. Getting Geoff involved in your side of the world is something you don’t want to think about. You make your way up to your apartment with conflicting feelings telling you simultaneously to call things off and to leave them be.

       You’re so distracted that you don't notice your door is cracked open until you have your key in the keyhole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Geoff wasn't OOC. I don't write him very often.


	5. Never Again Came Earlier Than Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just keep telling yourself more lies.

       You pull the knife from your garter and push the door open as quietly as you can. You can’t see anyone immediately--part of you hopes that whoever broke in has taken what they want and left already, a bigger part of you doubts that’s the case. You slip your heels off and pad bare-footed to the long table that rests against the entry-hall into your living-room. You reach blindly through the dark of your apartment until you find the cheap, ornate-looking flower vase that sits in the center of the table and you feel absolutely nothing inside of it; you curse--whoever broke in found your handgun.

       You know your switchblade will only do so much against someone with a gun, but you’re not about to run. You have too many valuable things in your apartment to just abandon it, and you certainly don't want the police to get involved should you leave now and have a neighbor potentially spot the intruder. You wonder if your mystery intruder knows how much they fucked up by choosing _your_ apartment to break into.

       You continue down the short hallway and peek around the corner into the living-room. You wish you could flip on some sort of light, but at least you know the layout of the place better than anyone else who is possibly there. Everything is eerily quiet and undisturbed in the living-room, as far as you can tell, and there’s no sign of anyone there so you stay against the wall and creep towards your bedroom. The door is closed, just like you’d left it before your date. You carefully twist the handle, a sudden spike of fear coursing through your veins; the hair on the back of your neck and along your arms stands up, and your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Maybe you should have grabbed the gun from the glove-compartment of your car before storming into the place like a hot-head.

       You peek inside your bedroom and see no silhouettes in the moonlight streaming through your blinds. No one is in the bathroom across the hall either. You take a chance and flick on both the bedroom and bathroom lights (if anyone is in your apartment they must know you’re there already, so why leave the lights off?) and check every corner of both rooms, to no avail. You give a small sigh of relief, then turn back around and head towards the kitchen, using the light that pours into the hallway to guide your way instead of the walls. You don’t see anyone there and you’re starting to believe that you won’t be finding anyone at all in your apartment tonight.

       You soon have just about every light in your apartment on, and not only do you not find an intruder but you also can’t see that anything of importance is missing. All of the items that robbers usually take are still in their proper place, and not a single thing looks like it’s been touched. It almost worries you more that you can’t find anything at all wrong, aside from your door being broken, than it would had they taken your TV and all of your jewelry.

       You lower the knife and your shoulders finally relax a little from their tense position. You’re still on edge, but you feel better knowing at least that there’s not anyone in your apartment currently. You keep the blade on you, just in case, as you move to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water.

       You’re standing near the sink when you suddenly feel a powerful grip on your hand that’s holding the switchblade. The glass of water slips from your free hand and shatters on the tile floor, and you think you would have screamed had you not started choking on water. You cough violently while your own hand is forced roughly upward and you find yourself holding a knife to your own throat, just under your jaw. “Who--” Your question is cut off as your attacker presses the blade hard enough against your neck that you feel the tip break skin. A warm rivulet of blood trickles down your neck and settles in the hollow of your collarbone.

       You stand incredibly still, tears of anger, frustration, and fear gathering in the corners of your eyes. The attacker--a man, you think, judging by the strength of the grip and the size of the hand--doesn’t move. It feels like time is moving in slow motion as you duck quickly to the left (a strategic move; he clearly thinks he has you pinned and as long as you duck  _away_ from the blade you won’t be cut too bad), crying out in pain when the blade makes a shallow slice along the length of your throat, and reach for the set of knives on the counter.

       You don’t make it very far. Your fingertips just barely brush the handle of one of the steak-knives before a hand on the back of your head slams your face into the countertop so hard that your vision blacks out for a moment. The action causes you to bite the inside of your cheek hard enough that you taste copper on your tongue. You spit onto the counter and look at the bloody saliva with disgust. You feel the cut on your neck pulsing as fresh blood streams from it steadily, and you wonder if this is how you’ll die. You know the cut won’t kill you, you’ve taken your fair share of first-aid classes and studied enough on wounds and vital spots of the body to know the cut is too far to the right of your jugular vein. But you wonder if the man isn’t a robber after all and is instead an assassin sent to take care of you. If this is the end, at least you had been able to spend your last night having fun.

       The hand on the back of your head makes a fist in your hair and lifts your face just so that it can be slammed down again. You cough more, spit up more blood. You feel his other hand on the back of your neck, gloved fingers reaching around until they find the cut on your neck and digging painfully into the wound. You cry out, tears now falling down your cheeks and onto the countertop.

       “Tell me, did you have fun on your date?”

       You freeze.

       Then you start fighting against his grip on you like a rabid animal. “You _fucking son of a bitch!_ ”

       The Vagabond gives a dark chuckle behind you and lets you go, stepping away from you with his hands raised like he’s surrendering. “It was just a question.”

       You take a second to angrily scrub the tears from your face before whipping around and swinging blindly at him. Your fist connects with his ribs and you hear a satisfying grunt from behind his mask as he stumbles to the side. You keep swinging, getting another blow to his ribs and one to his jaw before his hands are on your wrists and holding you like a vice.

       “I guess I deserved that,” he says. You can see his blue eyes shining with a fucked up kind of amusement behind the mask.

       “I thought you were going to kill me,” you seeth, keeping your voice as even as possible.

       “I know, it's _thrilling_ , isn't it?" When he notices that you don't share his sentiments he gives an indignant huff. "That,” he nods to your neck and the wound that’s still leaking fresh blood, “was **your** fault. I may have been a little rough with that pretty face of yours, but, hey, you _were_ trying to kill me.”

       The fact that he’s acting so casual is only making you angrier. You rip your hands away from his grasp and turn to the sink to grab a washcloth and clean the cut on your neck. “How the fuck did you find this place?”

       He shrugs. “I keep a close eye on people I find interesting. You’re not exactly discreet about getting home.”

       You do your best not to wince as you drag the rough cloth along your neck. It stings, but you’ve had worse before. "And where, _exactly_ , were you hiding while I was searching my house for the **asshole** who broke in?"

       "You left the door open," he answers easily, then makes a noise like a parent scolding a child. "Bad form, _Princess_. I just waited in the hallway until I saw my opportunity." His eyes twinkle, "You're wrong if you think this was the only place I broke into while I waited for you to return."

       You flush. How could you be so naïve as to leave your own apartment wide open? “Well I hope you like the place because you can fucking keep it." There is no way you’re staying here if he knows this is where you live. “But for now you can get the _hell_ out, and take your money back with you.” You level him with the best glare you can muster with a cut open neck and one half of your face throbbing.

       “That money is yours. Your share, remember? And here I thought you would be more appreciative." He saunters towards you slowly. "I was actually hoping we could have a more productive night,” he responds to your telling him to leave, very clearly eyeing you up. “Your date is an _awfully_ lucky man.”

       You see white and you swing at him again, catching him with a fist to his cheekbone. You hear him sputter what you assume is blood.

       His eyes glimmer, "You'll have to hit me harder than that if you want me to leave, sweetheart."

       You aim your next hit straight at where his nose should be and smile triumphantly when something under his mask crunches beneath the weight of your fist. Your knuckles will probably be bruised in the morning but you don't care.

       His breathing is ragged as he reaches up and lifts the lower half of his mask. His face is covered in a dark mixture of paint and blood, and his teeth stand out as he grins at you.

       Before you realize what you’re doing you’ve got two fistfuls of his leather jacket and your lips are pressed against his in a searing kiss. You had wanted to slap him, punch him, kick him until you couldn’t recognize that _stupid_ smirk of his anymore but your body had different plans. You’ve **never** kissed him before, and you’re starting to realize that, way deep down, you’ve always _wanted_ to. He apparently feels the same because he backs you against the counter, cages you with his arms, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

       You’re sure your face is smeared with the makeup he wears under his mask and the blood from his broken nose when he pulls away from you. “I thought you were going to hit me again,” he says with a voice filled with amusement.

       “Shut up.” You pull him back towards you again and slip your tongue between his teeth (all you taste is copper and it's somehow _perfect_ ), goosebumps breaking out across your arms and legs at the desperate groan that leaves his throat before he’s hauling you up onto the kitchen counter and pressing his hips between your thighs. He hikes the bottom of your dress up around your hips impatiently and, without breaking the kiss, he pushes your panties to the side and pushes two fingers into you.

       Your head drops back as a breathy moan leaves your lips. You know that it’s wrong, that you promised you would never fool around with him again, but adrenaline makes your head spin when he’s around. You remember Geoff and your date and you push it to the back of your mind as quickly as you can before you can think about it too hard. Yes, it’s a mistake and you’re a fucked up mess for wanting it, but you can’t deny that you want it. You want him, the Vagabond, inside you, filling you, just like this. You don't care that he hurts you and that he terrifies you and that you had only moments ago thought that you were going to die at his hand. He _understands_  you, understands the life that you live, the constant danger and the rush that comes from it. He lives and breathes it every day, just like you do. It's a thought that is equally disturbing and comforting.

       His fingers twist roughly inside of you and you cry out. Then suddenly he’s pulling away from you, pulling you down off the counter and onto shaking legs so that he can practically tear the dress away from your body. Once it’s gone he sweeps his eyes appreciatively over the marks he had left last night, then lifts you back up onto the counter and quickly undoes his belt. His mouth is hot against yours when he pushes inside of you and you swallow each other’s moans.

       It’s always been frantic, rushed passion when it comes to the two of you. Even now, as he grips your hips hard and thrusts deep and your teeth clack together. You fuck like you live your lives: quick and dangerous.

       He pulls away from your kiss and bites fresh marks into your shoulders while you claw red grooves along his back. His hips stutter in their rhythm and he groans into the skin of your neck when you claw those same fingernails into the skin of his ass. He grabs you by the throat with one hand and pushes you until you're lying flat against the counter. His other hand moves over the curve of your hip, down your thigh and over your knee to your calf where he leaves imprints of crescent moons with his nails. He's not leaving any skin unmarked this time.

       You whine, wanting to sit up, wanting to feel his lips again, but he just smiles down at you and presses against your windpipe until your mouth drops open and your eyes start to roll back.

       " _Fuck_ , you look good like this," he praises you as his thrusting becomes more erratic. He grabs you by the ankle and pulls you further down the counter, until he's supporting most of your weight and the edge of the tile is digging painfully into your back. He releases your neck as both of his hands find purchase over the bruises on your hips.

       Your eyes fly open when you feel his thumb circling the slick bundle of nerves between your legs and you nearly scream as you come undone around his throbbing cock. He fucks you through your orgasm until tears are gathering in your eyes again from overstimulation, and then you feel liquid heat cover your stomach and chest.

       He waits for his breathing to normal out again before lifting you and carrying you to your bedroom. He gently places you in the bed, then stands and wipes the sweat from his neck and jawline, smearing more of his makeup with it. "Well tonight went better than I expected."

       You want to snap at him, say something about how it won't happen again, but you know that's a lie. Besides, you're too tired to argue right now. You don't even hear him leave before you pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really liked writing this chapter. GTA Ryan is such an interesting, crazy character.


	6. Conflicting Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart wants what it wants. Unfortunately for you, you're getting mixed signals.

       You stand in front of your full-length mirror for a long time, staring at the reflection of your own body. You reach up and gently touch the pad of gauze that’s delicately secured to your neck with bandages. When you had woken up you immediately noticed that you were no longer covered in blood and that you had smaller bandages covering the deeper bite marks and scratches that the Vagabond had left. You also noticed, and it made you smile more than you would admit, that there were pain meds and a bottle of water waiting for you on your bedside table.

       You were glad, because you desperately needed them. You had thought you were in bad shape yesterday, but the reflection staring back at you now looks positively terrible. Your hips are bruised dark with definite outlines of fingers, scratches now descend past your thighs down to your calves, and one of your ankles is marked red from the force he had used to drag you down the counter. Your back is raw and covered in small cuts from the rough edges of the tile, and your face is green, purple, yellow, and swollen along one side. You can still feel the outline of your teeth along the inside of your cheek from where you had bitten the tender flesh, and your neck is still throbbing despite the medication.

       The fact that you're bandaged up only makes you look that much worse, but it's a nice gesture nontheless. You try _not_ to think about the Vagabond cleaning the blood from your skin and cleaning up your apartment (the shards of broken glass from the cup you had dropped in the kitchen are no longer littering your floor, and your counters have been wiped completely clean) while you slept because it makes you blush and it’s bizarre. You’re beginning to think that _kissing_ him was not a great idea. It’s much too intimate a gesture and intimacy is the last thing you need between yourself and someone from a dangerous, ridiculous crew that terrorizes the city. You’re also still a little surprised by how receptive he had been to it, especially considering how long it had taken him just to lift the _bottom half_ of his mask around you for the first time, and a part of you is now itching to see what he hides underneath the rest of that mask.

       Your feelings are so conflicting that it’s giving you whiplash. Between Geoff and the Vagabond your life seems to be a constant game of _you-want-to-but-you-shouldn’t_ lately and it’s exhausting. On one hand you have a real gentleman and he’s _sweet_ and charming as hell, but you risk dragging him into your world if you continue to see him. On the other hand you have someone well-versed in your world and the passion between you burns like wildfire when you’re together, but he’s _dangerous_ and a reputation of loose morals and murder follows him hot on his heels. And you’re somehow lucky enough to be dealing with both problems at once. You don’t want to think about it anymore.

       You slip a shirt three sizes too large for you over your head and decide to forego pants--you’re not planning on leaving your apartment today anyway; you plan to spend a day on your couch binge-watching the TV shows you’re behind on. You open your fridge to get yourself a drink and find a bottle of white wine that you didn’t buy on the top shelf. There’s an envelope with it that’s filled with a large stack of one-hundred dollar bills and words scribbled on it that say “ _sorry about your face._ ”  You smile to yourself as you finger through the cash--five-thousand dollars is quite the way to apologize. You think you can _almost_ forgive the masked man for breaking into your place. Almost. You slip the envelope into one of the kitchen drawers for now and you’re about to pour yourself a glass of the wine when you hear a soft knock on your door.

       You desperately want to ignore it but if it’s a nosy neighbor wondering about all the noise last night, or, you know, questioning everyone about the series of break-ins that the Vagabond had performed while apparently waiting for you, then you need to get them off his (and subsequently your) back. You answer the door without pants and with a glass of wine in hand.

       You see the bouquet of flowers first. You backpedal as quickly as you can until you can hide the majority of your exposed skin behind the corner to the living-room. “Geoff, what are you doing here?!”

       The tattooed man follows you in, dropping the flowers on the hallway table. His eyes are fixed on your neck. “What the _hell_ happened to you?!” His voice cracks as it raises, but you don’t have time to think about how cute it is right now.

       You have half the mind to run to your bedroom and hide there until he leaves. Instead you slam your entire glass of wine and level your gaze with his. You want to say something, you’re _going_ to say something, but instead you walk to the kitchen to get more wine. You have no idea how you’re going to explain this.

       He storms after you into the kitchen and stops you when you grab for the bottle, then forces you to face him with surprising strength. “Will you _please_ explain what’s going on? _Please?_ ”

       You’re glad for the bandages that hide the damning evidence of exactly how you’d become so battered, and that your shirt is long enough to cover your hips and thighs. “I went to the bar after you took off,” you blurt the lie, not meeting his eyes. “I was in a bad mood, I was drunk, and I got into a fight with someone who was being a little too handsy.” It sounds believable enough. You touch the bandage on your neck and wince. “He got kicked out of the bar, then decided to wait outside for me with some friends.”

      “They could have killed you!” His eyes are filled with intense anger and it makes you feel even worse for lying to him. He must notice the look of guilt on your face and mistake it for something else because his eyes soften immediately. “Are you okay? It looks like they really did a number on you.” He lifts a hand and places it on your bruised cheek gently, smoothing his thumb soothingly over your skin.

       “Yeah, I’m okay. This is the worst of it,” you motion to your neck. “The cowards pulled a switchblade on me.”

       He frowns deeply and his voice is cold when he speaks next. “Who the fuck did this?”

       “Don’t worry about it, please,” you plead with him. “Really, if you think **I** look bad then you should see **them**.”

       “You never look bad,” he replies quickly, a hint of a smile gracing his features. “Hell, even with a swollen face you look better than me on my good days.”

       “You’re a bad liar,” you smile at him as best you can. You keep talking before your mind catches up with your mouth. “Hey, do you wanna watch some movies? I mean, if you aren’t busy or anything?”

       “I knocked on just about every damn door in this building just to find you and you think I’m just gonna leave? I saw some shit, man. It’s not really as nice a surprise when old dudes open doors not wearing any pants.”

       You startle at the reminder both that you hadn’t asked him how he found your place (What was it with guys hunting your apartment down lately? You might actually need to move, or maybe just be more secretive but apparently that was a lot more work than you thought), and that you’re still not wearing any pants. “I’ll be right back!” You rush to your room, throw on a different night-shirt with a higher neckline and long sleeves, pull on a pair of sweatpants, and check yourself in the mirror to make sure your hair isn’t too much of a wreck. When you walk back out you see that Geoff is sitting on your couch with the TV remote in one hand and his own glass of wine in the other. Your glass of wine is refilled and sitting on the end-table at the other end of the couch for you. “Wow, really making yourself comfortable, aren’t you?”

       “Hey, what can I say? You’ve got a pretty nice couch in this shitty little apartment.”

       You feign hurt, “Shitty little apartment?”

       “You heard me,” he laughs, patting the spot beside him. You plop down next to him and he doesn’t hesitate to huddle you into his side and slide an arm around your shoulders. “I’m stealing you away to my place next time.”

       There it is again. He throws those words around so confidently and it somehow manages to make your heart stutter every time. You lean against him more heavily and let your body finally fully relax for the first time since your date at the restaurant. You spend the rest of the day cuddled up on the couch with him watching bad horror movies and laughing when he screams at every dumb, easy-to-predict scare. By the time the sun is disappearing over the horizon you’ve finished two bottles of wine between the two of you and you’re now lying with your head in his lap. You fell asleep a few times during the movie that’s currently playing so, since you’re already lost on the plot, you let your eyes drift shut again. The two of you fall asleep like that on the couch.

 

       Geoff stays with you for the better part of the next few weeks, ignoring most of his calls in favor of watching over you while you heal. Your bruises gradually fade and your wounds gradually heal. The swelling in your face goes down and the cut on your neck scabs over but still looks unpleasant so you take to wearing scarves more often. Geoff takes you to his place sometimes (it’s so breathtakingly beautiful and fancy compared to your apartment that you understand why he called your place shitty--he even has a fully stocked bar), and sometimes when you feel like covering your remaining bruises with makeup the two of you go out. He cooks meals for you on the nights that you don’t go out and _damn_ if he doesn’t own up to his self-proclaimed title. More often than not he drives by himself to the convenience store to pick up pain medication and foundation for you when you run out. He offers to help you every time you need to change your bandages but you don't let him until the bites and more obvious hickies fade.

       You still feel like shit that he’s taking care of you while you recover from injuries that, for the most part, were desired. But you’ve never claimed to be a good person and having Geoff with you makes you _happy_ , happier than you’ve been in a long time. The rest of your world seems to fall away when he’s around, and you find it nice to exist in simple domesticity with someone without having to worry about where to rob next, what intel to get, and who you’re going to piss off next in the world of crime. It’s nice to feel like your life is normal and on track instead of fleeting and derailed for once. You know that it won't last long and that even a few weeks is too long to take off--you don't want to lose your reputation after all--but you reason that your work will be easier for you once you're healed and that you don't need any of your contacts believing you to be vulnerable if they see you covered in wounds.

       Geoff occasionally has to leave for work; you catch him texting sometimes and you assume that it’s work-related by the furrow in his brow. He never seems to be gone for too long and it makes you wonder what he does for a living but you don’t ask. When he returns he usually brings groceries with him and he never talks about what he was doing while he was gone. You wouldn’t say it’s secretive, you just get the feeling that he doesn’t really like his job so he doesn’t talk about it. You can’t blame him, it’s not like you talk to him about your occupation either and you don’t even dislike what you do.

       Tonight the two of you decide to stay in. You’re in your apartment playing video games with him on a system he brought over earlier in the week and losing pitifully while he laughs at your misfortune. Cartons of chinese food and beer bottles litter the coffee-table in front of you. Getting drunk and super competitive over games together is just another one of the comfortable patterns the two of you have fallen into. You start to wonder on occasion what he tells his friends about the two of you--does he refer to you as a friend that he’s casually been spending all of his time with or does he refer to you as something _more_? You decide not to bring it up; you’re comfortable with your current relationship with him where it stands, but it doesn’t stop the question from popping into your head every now and again.

       His phone rings and he pauses the game to answer it. He laughs and shoves you away when you get into his face and tell him it’s cheating to pause mid-game. He holds the phone to his ear while simultaneously wrestling you away from him. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he speaks to whoever is on the other end of the call. “No, I’m on my way… No, I swear, you dick. I’m already in my car and everything.”

       You silently wonder what kind of job lets him go into work drunk (and refer to a coworker as “ _you_ _dick_ ”) as he begins gathering the empty food-cartons in his hands. “Will you be back tonight?” you ask, putting the leftovers in the fridge next to the leftovers from the last two times he had been over at your place.

       He cards his fingers through his own hair, messing it up even more. “Probably not, sounds like it’s gonna be a _long_ fuckin’ night.” He drawls out the syllables of “long” for emphasis while he slips his shoes on.

       You follow him to the door of your apartment and lean your shoulder against the wall. You still have faint yellow splotches around your neck, but your face is almost completely healed and it no longer aches to move like it did during the first week after your _nights_ with the Vagabond. You’re starting to think Geoff is staying around now less because he’s worried about your health and more because he just knows he can. The thought makes you smile. “Well then, thank you for the Chinese food and for copping out on our game. I’m going to chalk that up as another win for me.”

       “Add another tally to the only other two you have,” he shoots right back. He reaches for the door-handle but stops just short and turns around to face you again. He takes a step towards you, reaches up with both hands to cup your face, and kisses you. It’s short and chaste, and his beard hairs tickle your cheeks.

       You smile brightly at him when he pulls away, then lean forwards and give him another quick kiss. “Have a good night.”

       He smiles right back at you, “Practice up so I won’t kick your butt as bad next time.”

       Once he’s gone you place your hand over your chest and feel your heart thumping fiercely.

       Your first kiss with Geoff Ramsey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fluffy. My heart. 
> 
> I really hope you're all liking it so far! Things are about to take a drastic turn in the next chapter!


	7. Fleeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life always seems so perfect until it doesn't.

       Evidently, Geoff wasn’t lying about it being a _long_ night because a night turned into a day turned into a week. It’s strange not seeing him at all after spending so much time with him recently, but he has his job to do and you don’t miss him too much because he texts you links to stupid videos, extravagant recipes, and occasionally pictures of his face when he gets the chance. You smile every time your phone buzzes and you can’t help feeling that this is how life is _supposed_ to be--no stress or worry or fear, just happiness. You feel like your life is finally balancing itself out after the whirlwind just a few weeks ago; you no longer have any bruises to feel guilty about so you no longer have to wear pants and long-sleeve shirts whenever you’re around anyone else. The only reminder from then is the scarring cut that’s still healing on your neck, but you’re starting to think it looks pretty badass so you don’t mind. You haven’t seen or heard from the Vagabond since that night and you feel relieved knowing you’re _done_ dealing with the Fake AH Crew.

       You take the time away from Geoff to focus on work. You have a list of potential employers with a variety of jobs waiting for you (you own a second cell-phone under a fake name that you give to everyone who needs to get in touch with you--you write down names when they call and tell them you’ll get back to them later), but you had been subtly brushing off a persistent man while you were healing; you think you should probably see what he wants now. You pick up one of your several burner phones and dial the number you have circled in red ink.

       The man calls himself _Cobra_ \--you’ve heard it a few times before but can’t match it with any major crimes in the area, or any at all for that matter. He requires your services to “ _rid-himself-of-a-thorn-in-his-side_ ” as he so eloquently puts. It’s a pretty simple job, just get close to the target and get rid of him. You tentatively accept his request and tell him you’ll be in contact should anything change. You want to research the man you’re being sent after before promising anything.

       You don’t do your research in your apartment. You don’t like any part of your work to be associated with your home, you have several aliases with different email accounts and bank accounts for that very reason--you don’t want any of your transactions, phone calls, or messages to ever be traced back to where you live. You don’t even like to do your research in your safe-house so you own a tiny, barely one-bedroom place with dirt-cheap rent on the opposite side of the city. You’re positive no one knows it exists so it’s the safest location to conduct business. You put on a grey sweatshirt and jeans, it’s indistinguishable, easy to blend in, and throw on a baseball cap before taking a cab into the heart of Los Santos where the foot-traffic is the busiest. You get out there and walk the rest of the way to the tiny building that you like to refer to as your _workspace_.

       Once you’re inside you grab your laptop from its hiding spot under the poor excuse for a mattress and set to work figuring out everything you can about your target. His name is John Reid, according to Cobra, and as soon as you type in the name you get plenty of results. He’s known around Los Santos as _Tinkerbell_ \--you’ve heard the name plenty of times in your line of work. He owns an extensive underground network of drug distributors in the city, has been rumored to be moving more than just drugs recently, and he has a reputation of being short-tempered and more than a little trigger-happy. You wonder what business Cobra could possibly have that he would want to take such a big name down.

       You find articles upon articles about the crimes he has committed in Los Santos but the police don’t know much about him other than his name. You pick up a burner phone again and dial the number for one of your contacts. She picks up after the first ring, as usual. “Hey Caiti,” you greet her without pause. “I need some info.”

       “I’m sorry, can I put you on hold for just one second?” she asks, her accented voice sickly sweet.

       “Roger,” you confirm, then hang up. Caiti is an Australian woman who works as a secretary for some higher-ups in the city. Her title as one of the best employees in Los Santos is well-deserved, as is her lesser known title of being one of the best undercover agents on the market. She eats up all the information that she overhears and feeds it back to the highest bidder. Whenever you need information you call her at work and she gives you one of two signals-- _on hold_ to call her back on her cell or _you’ve got the wrong number_ if it’s not a good time. You wait two minutes before calling her back.

       She answers immediately. “Hey Princess,” her voice is hushed, “I don’t have much time. What’s up?”

       “I need information on Tinkerbell.”

       “ _Tinkerbell?_ ” she repeats as if it’s the last name she expected you to say. “Why do you need anything on him? He’s really dangerous, you know.”

       You have been lucky enough to form a fairly decent relationship with most of your regular contacts, Caiti included. You may have never seen each others faces, but she provides top-notch information that you can’t get anywhere else and you pay her more than she requests every time--it’s easy to form a bond when you trust who you’re talking to. You appreciate that she has a certain level of concern for you, but it’s unnecessary. “I just need it, please,” you say as politely as you can. “If you can send it to me tonight with a price, I’d appreciate it. I’ll get the money to you soon.”

       She hesitates a moment longer before agreeing. “Anything for you.”

       “Thanks, Caiti.” You hang up a moment later and plop down on the beaten up couch. You have mixed feelings about this job. Tinkerbell is bad news, he’s associated with more death in Los Santos than you, the Fake AH Crew, and a few other crews combined. You’ve steered clear of him at the warning of others since the start of your career, but that doesn’t keep word of him from reaching your ears. His network is filled with dangerous criminals who have even more branches in the underground--you’ve heard that several of his employees owe him money, or are just too frightened to leave; you can’t blame them since whispers throughout the city say anyone who crosses him ends up dismembered in the streets in a fortnight. Los Santos would certainly be a better place if he was gone.

       It isn’t until late at night when you receive an email from Caiti. It’s filled with different folders and encrypted to appear like a standard email between boring business partners, something nobody would suspect her for if they saw her writing it. She has less on him than you hoped, but you’re not very surprised considering most of the top-dogs in the crime world cover their tracks when they want to. You skim through the files, mostly lists of the crimes he’s committed, a number of locations where he has been spotted more than once, and a select few photos of his face. You had hoped to get the names of some buildings he owned, but at least you know his face now. You’re about to give up and head back to your apartment for the night when you spot a piece of information that catches your eye. There is a formal dinner party taking place tomorrow night and, according to the file, Tinkerbell might be making an appearance. You make a mental note of that and shut your laptop.

       The sun is teetering on the horizon when you leave your workplace, and by the time you reach your apartment it has disappeared and left the sky a mix of oranges and pinks. When you reach your floor and round the corner of the hallway you’re surprised to see Geoff leaning against your door with a few brown paper bags at his feet. “Finally escape from work?” you tease as you approach him.

       He looks up from his phone and grins at you, “Yeah, I told those assholes that I had a date with a pretty lady tonight.” He leans down to pick up the bags from the floor. “I didn’t realize you were gonna make me wait outside like some kind of animal.”

       “I had errands!” you insist, unlocking your door for him and ushering him inside. He moves to set the bags on the kitchen counter and you step up behind him, wrapping your arms around his middle. “What’s for dinner tonight, chef?”

       He starts pulling fresh vegetables and cheeses and, of course, a bottle of champagne from the bags. “Remember that lasagna dish I texted you the recipe for? I think I’ve been having wet dreams about it.”

       You laugh and kiss him between his shoulder blades before stepping around him to find your bottle-opener. As he sets to work rummaging through your drawers to find pots and pans you find some music on your phone and pour two glasses of champagne. You sit on the counter and watch with fascination as he gets the noodles boiling, chops up an obscene amount of vegetables, and then blends up an outstanding looking pesto. In the midst of dealing with all the different components of the dish he suddenly steps close to you and places his hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. “Why hello,” you say with a sly smile, placing your hands on his tattooed forearms. “Did you miss me?”

       “No, work is _so_ great,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know I never get tired of a good circle jerk.” He leans forward then and kisses you and it’s just as powerful as the first time, except _this time_ he doesn’t pull away as quickly.

       You slide your fingers up his across his shoulders and neck, holding him close.

       He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead on your shoulder. “I might have maybe missed you a little bit,” he mutters, then presses his lips quickly to the cut on your neck before standing straight again. “Where are your spoons and shit?” he asks. “Unless you want the shittiest lasagna of your life I need to stir those noodles.”

       You point at the drawer he’s looking for, still in a kiss-induced daze. He turns his back and goes rooting through the drawer for the utensil before you finally find your voice. “I think I missed you too.” He doesn’t say anything for a long time, in fact, his shoulders look much more tense than you remember them looking just a few moments ago. Had adding the “ _I think_ ” before your words given across the wrong message? You were only trying to joke around with him, you figured he would know that considering you banter back and forth with him constantly. You slide off the counter and place a tentative hand gently on his shoulder. “Geoff?”

       He flinches away from your touch like you’ve burned him. You want to ask him what’s wrong, tell him you didn’t mean what you said, say anything that will bring the mood back to where it _just_ was, but before you have time to do any of that he slams his hand against the counter so violently that you jump. Then he storms out of the kitchen, leaving you with a hollow feeling in your chest. Your eyes focus on the envelope that lies on the counter, where his hand had just been, and you feel your breath punch painfully out of your lungs. You feel frozen on the spot but you force yourself to move anyway, to go after him.

       He’s standing in the living-room, posture rigid, the lines of his face set in a deep scowl. He’s on the phone and you catch the very end of the conversation-- “ _you know exactly where_ ” --before he jams the “end-call” button hard enough that it should have cracked the screen.

       “Geoff?” You call to him timidly, your voice shaking like you’re on the verge of tears. You don’t realize until that moment that you might be. “I can explain, I--”

       “You don’t need to,” his voice cracks but for the first time ever you don't find it endearing at all. He sits heavily on the couch and crosses his ankle over his knee. “You got any whiskey here?” You know that he knows you do, he keeps his own bottle at your place instead of bringing one over every time. The fact that he knows and asks anyway stings.

       You’ve never seen him so angry or heard his voice so cold. He looks completely foreign to you as he is now and instead of trying to say anything more to him you go to the kitchen and pour him, and yourself, a drink.

       He doesn’t meet your eyes when he accepts the glass.

       There is a long stretch of tense silence that coils so tight around the room that you’re actually afraid of what will happen if it snaps. You lose track of how much time passes by as you sit in the furthest seat from him in the living-room and wait. You try to figure out why this is happening, why you were so _stupid_ and left the damn envelope in the drawer, why he's so mad about it in the first place. You're starting to think that maybe this just isn't the way life is _supposed_ to be after all. Maybe happiness is _supposed_ to be fleeting so that you don't have to feel like _this_ every time uglier emotions rear their heads. Your drink sits untouched on the end-table next to you until he finishes his and then reaches over and takes yours as well. The knock on the door is so abrupt that you startle for the second time that night. When you move to stand Geoff stops you with a motion of his hand. You hesitantly lower yourself back into your seat, afraid of somehow pissing him off even further. Whoever is at the door, they’re clearly here for him anyway. You don’t even watch as he goes to answer the door himself, you keep your eyes trained to the floor and fight off any potential tears threatening to fall.

       It isn’t until you hear two sets of footsteps approach you that you look up. You think your heart stops in your chest.

       Geoff angrily grabs the full bottle of whiskey from the Vagabond’s hand, uncaps it, and sucks down more than you thought humanly possible straight out of the bottle. He sits back down and pierces you with blazing blue eyes. “ _Now_ I want an explanation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so happy with this story so far and I've been getting so many fantastic comments from you guys and it just keeps spurring me to write more. Welcome to the dramatic side of the fun story!


	8. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The love triangle nobody wanted and feelings nobody asked for.

       Your head is pounding so hard that you can feel it in your temples and you feel like you’re going to throw up. Part of you hopes that you _do_ just so that you have an excuse to run to the bathroom and get out from under the heavy air that’s settling about the living-room. You stay still despite the overwhelming urge to open a window and let some fresh air in. You stare at Geoff, betrayed and _confused_ and he stares right back at you; you recognize similar emotions in the twitch of his eyebrow, the downturned corners of his mouth, and the _hurt_ in his eyes.

       You would be more concerned about that hurt if you could figure out why the Vagabond is currently standing in your apartment, and why Geoff is acting almost _familiar_ with him. A rotten feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.

       Geoff has swallowed down about half of the bottle of whiskey now and despite the fact that he should be far _beyond_ inebriated, his eyes are sharper than ever. You have no idea what he wants you to say, so you just silently hold his gaze and hope beyond reason that this is all a bad dream. How are you ever supposed to explain this to him? That you’ve slept with the masked criminal, who he seems to **know** ( _why does he know him?_ ), more times than you can count, that he took care of the wounds you received from your night of passion with the Vagabond on the  _same_ night of the first date Geoff ever took you on. How are you supposed to explain how you became affiliated with the Vagabond in the first place without outing yourself as a criminal?

       “You know him, right?” the tattooed man finally asks in a lazy drawl, between sips of booze. “No,” he raises a hand to silence you when you open your mouth. “Don't answer that, I already know 'cause I found your fuckin' letter. I want to know _how_ you know him.”

       He's being outright **mean** , not even allowing you the chance to speak or defend yourself. It makes you mad because the Vagabond is here and you don't know _why_ , don't know how Geoff knows him either, and you feel like both of you have some explaining to do to one another not just you.

       “I feel like I’m interrupting something,” the masked-man suddenly speaks, breaking the tense silence. His tone is so _casual_ that you have the urge to punch him right in the nose again. “Maybe I should come back another time, _boss?_ ” He has the audacity to smirk then (you see it in the crinkle of the corners of his eyes), as if it’s all a game to him.

       “Shut the _fuck_ up, Ryan,” Geoff snaps viciously, but the damage has already been done.

       You see red. You have no time to think about the way that the Vagabond-- _Ryan’s_ \--head snaps in Geoff’s direction and his eyes narrow dangerously at the mention of what you can only assume is his real name. _Of course_ it’s his real name. You’re on your feet before you realize you’re moving. The Zentorno makes sense now, the extravagant evenings and the money makes sense now, hell, even Ryan standing in your apartment makes sense now. “ _Boss?!_ You’re the boss of the Fakes?!” It can’t be true, it can’t be, _it can’t be_. Not Geoff, not the one normal thing in your fucked up life. Even as all of the pieces begin to fit into place you still don’t want to believe it.

       “Oh, she didn’t know?” Ryan asks, feigning his innocence though his voice is still hard--probably pissed that Geoff revealed the name he’d kept a secret from you for so long. He waves his hand dismissively, “My bad, I just assumed she already knew, what with her occupation and all.” He turns his steely blue eyes onto you and before you can even think to move he’s speaking again. “I’m honestly a little hurt, _Princess_ , I knew you had a date that night but if I had known who with maybe I wouldn’t have been so rough.”

       You freeze. It’s all a big joke to him, isn’t it? He thinks ruining your life is some kind of game and _just like that_ he laid out everything on the table that you never wanted Geoff to know. He had somehow managed to walk through your door and turn everything important in your life on it’s head in record time. You think you’re about to punch him but Geoff beats you to it.

       He punches Ryan right in the jaw, so hard that the man stumbles backwards, then shakes his hand and checks his tattooed knuckles to make sure he hadn’t hurt them. “You’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, you know that?”

       The Vagabond chuckles in reply, lifting the bottom of his mask and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so worked up, Geoff.”

       “It’s been a long time since _you’ve_ acted like such an asshole, you asshole.”

       Ryan rubs his jaw contemplatively and for a moment you’re worried he’s going to strike back. “Tell me, how do you expect me to react when I learn that you’re fooling around with what’s _mine_ in your free time?”

       You feel a chill roll down your spine at the use of such a possessive term.

       “She isn’t yours, you piece of shit. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

       You can almost _feel_ the smirk through Ryan’s mask. “Trust me, Geoff, she has _been mine_ several times.”

       Something in you finally snaps when you hear those words. You feel like the last few moments have been in slow motion, ever since Ryan revealed who you were to Geoff (who has said nothing about it, at least not yet, and has instead **defended** you--fuck if that wasn’t the nicest thing he could have done in this situation). You finally feel something besides numbness, you feel a fire burning across your skin and licking at the few shreds of humanity you have life. You’ve never been so mad before. You don’t realize what you’ve done until your ears stop ringing and your eyes can finally focus again. Your hand feels warm. You blink rapidly as you realize your hand is caught around the edge of Ryan’s mask and _lifting_.

       The Vagabond eyes are wild as he stares down at you, waiting to see what you’ll do. “I--” you finally find your voice but you don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to rip the mask off his face just to piss him off and the other part is petrified of what a pissed off Ryan will do.

       When your hand tightens around his mask he reaches for you, gripping your hair so hard you fear he’ll pull it out as he forces you to look up into his eyes. “ _Y_ _ou’re making a big mistake._ ”

       You feel your stomach drop--you’re finally starting to understand why the people of Los Santos are so terrified of the Vagabond.

       Geoff is at your side then, with his hand wrapped firmly around Ryan’s wrist. “You’re the one making the mistake right now, buddy. Get the fuck out of here,” he warns him. “I should’ve known better than to call your crazy ass.”

       Ryan seems to regain some of his composure as Geoff delicately removes your hand from his mask. "If you wanted to see my face so bad all you had to do was ask nicely, sweetheart," he speaks to you in a sultry tone, playing it off as though he hadn't been about to throttle you moments ago. The abrupt change is nearly cause enough for whiplash.

       You're starting to realize _just_ how much you've fucked up. Not only have you been fooling around with an absolute psychopath, you've also essentially been dating the leader of one of the most renown crews in the city. Your beautiful, happy image of your life is crumbling and bursting into flames right before your eyes and it's all your fault. “I think that both of you need to go,” you say in a whisper. Today has been one hell of an emotional rollercoaster and it’s finally taking it’s toll on you. You tell yourself that you want to be alone, at least until you get everything in your head sorted out, but in reality the last thing you want right now is to be left alone with your thoughts. You want, more than anything, for time to reverse so that you can spend a nice night in with Geoff, you want to be none-the-wiser about his occupation and for him to be none-the-wiser about yours.

       “We still need to talk, (y/n),” Geoff answers you, but you’re not having any of it.

       “We had time to talk, Geoff! We had all the time in the world, but you decided to call _him!_ ” You feel angry, stinging tears in the corners of your eyes but you can’t stop now that you’ve started. “Not only that but you’re the _leader_ of the Fakes? How do I know you haven’t been collaborating with him this whole time?!” Your subconscious is **screaming** at you that you’re not being reasonable, but your mouth keeps moving. “I don’t want to talk anymore, Geoff! I want you and your crew _out_ of my life!” You don’t mean it, you don’t mean it at all, and you instantly regret saying anything at all when you see the expression on Geoff’s face. Even Ryan is looking at you with widened eyes. You don’t take it back though, because you’re angry and hot tears are falling down your cheeks and you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of these two enough for this lifetime and the next. “Please,” you try to keep your voice even and fail miserably, “leave.”

       Your apartment is eerily silent as they both nod in solemn agreement. Geoff raises a hand as he passes by you and trails gentle fingers down your arm until he reaches your wrist, but you rip your hand away from him before he can grab it.

       “I can’t do this right now, Geoff,” you plead with him. “Just go.”

       No further words are exchanged between the three of you as the two men step into the hallway. You're surprised that Ryan is so silent after being the cause of everything falling apart--you hope he's beginning to realize what he has done, how his nonchalance about everything has not only affected you but his boss as well. You notice that Geoff almost has his bottle of whiskey finished before you even shut the door.

       As soon as you’re alone you slide down the wall, hide your face in your hands, and cry for a long time. You cry until you're not sure what you're crying about anymore, and then you stand on shaky legs and walk to the kitchen where the pans on the stove have been ruined by fire. You turn off the burners and the oven and slowly begin to put everything away, but when you see the unused pesto sitting on your counter near the white envelope with Ryan's handwriting on it you break down all over again. You think you're going to have to move out of this apartment because everywhere you look there are reminders. You can't look at your counters or your mirrors without thinking about Ryan, and you can’t look at _anything_ in your apartment anymore without thinking about Geoff--before you found it to be endearing but now it only serves as a grim reminder of what was. You can’t look at your kitchen without thinking of the meals he made for you so many times, or the living-room without thinking of your drunken nights spent playing video games with him. You can’t even look at your bathroom without remembering how you would laugh hysterically at him every time he would try to remain balanced while pissing on those nights.

       You slide your fingers into your hair and grip the roots. You need to find something to distract yourself, anything to stop thinking about them, about _him_.

       You didn't realize why you were never able to get him off your mind before, but you're starting to realize it now that he's gone.

       It grips your heart and squeezes it tight and you feel like you might get sick all over again.

       You can’t, you _can’t_ be in love with the leader of the Fake AH Crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. So that's that. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this chapter because I had a harder time writing the arguments than I thought I was going to so I'm not sure if it came off exactly how I wanted it to or not. I also just want to say that I know that the focus of this story so far has been more on the reader's relationship with Geoff, but Ryan will definitely become more involved as the story continues! Don't give up on him! I just love writing him as crazy and maniacal as possible.


	9. Tinkerbell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attend the formal dinner party where it's rumored you'll meet the infamous drug dealer.

       You think it’s about time you introduce yourself to Tinkerbell.

       You had put yourself to bed soon after Geoff and Ryan left your apartment last night and refused to think about them at all throughout the day. Instead you set to work finding your most expensive perfume and pulling out your finest red dress--a long, sleeveless gown with a low back and a leg slit that almost reaches your hip. You take the day to memorize the information in Caiti’s files and make sure you’ll recognize his face among a crowd. He’s an older gentleman, with grey sideburns blending into darker hair at the top of his head, but he’s not someone who _looks_ like they would run a drug cartel. You've always pictured him as a stocky old man with a round belly, but the images in the files show the blurry outlines of a tall, lean body. When you feel you have the information down you delete any evidence of the files from your computer and erase the email from Caiti. You decide to watch some movies to pass the time until the dinner party but you sit silently on the couch for about ten minutes before your thoughts begin to stray towards dangerous territory. You forego watching movies and instead get dressed and head out to a salon.

       You want to look fantastic, so good that no man, including Tinkerbell, will be able to keep his eyes off of you. Plus you feel like some relaxation in your life is well-deserved right about now. There’s a small place nearby where you usually go when you want to get a little pampered but you grabbed the wad of cash Ryan had left you inside the envelope so you’re going somewhere expensive. You choose one of the higher-end salons in all of Los Santos and have them do you up to the nines. Your legs are waxed and smooth, your fingernails and toenails are painted deep red to match your dress, and your hair is done up and sparkling with little diamond details. You have them do your makeup too and you definitely _don’t_ think about the last time you dressed up so nice when they stain your lips with a dark red lipstick. The only thing you need to complete your ensemble is a diamond necklace. You splurge a bit and buy one on the way home.

       Once you’re back in your apartment you slip on your dress and necklace and look at yourself in the mirror for a moment. You look beautiful, like you belong at a formal dinner party--the woman who did your makeup was even able to touch up the cut on your neck so that it didn’t stand out as badly as it had before. You’re actually a little happy that she didn’t cover it up so much that it was completely invisible because, with the necklace around your neck, it makes you look _dangerous_. You think you’ll appeal to a leader of a drug-ring just fine.

       Before you leave you make sure to strap a switchblade to one thigh. The major disadvantage to a form-fitting dress is the fact that you can’t carry a gun without it being way too noticeable, but you’ve killed men with knives before. It’s messy, but you can pull it off.

       You arrive fashionably late and you feel several sets of eyes on you when you walk into the ostentatious ballroom where the hardwood floors have been surrounded by table after table of lavish looking dishes. The room is filled with people dressed in clothing and jewelry that, you assume, is far more expensive than your own, and waiters dressed in black suits occasionally flit by holding trays filled with hors d'oeuvres and glasses of wine. Your heels clack against the floor as you move through the crowd to get yourself a drink. You keep an air of untouchability about yourself as you cautiously mingle among the crowd, keeping an eye out for Tinkerbell the entire time. It seems that almost every conversation you have someone asks you who you’re there with, and you start to get a sinking feeling that perhaps you should be playing the part of arm-candy and not an independent woman. Then again, arm-candy is the last thing you want to act as right now.

       About an hour into the party you still haven’t seen Tinkerbell and you’re starting to think that maybe the information was a false lead. You’re tired of being pestered by snooty rich folks while you wait--you had come up with a story about who you were for the event but the only thing they seem to be interested in is the fact that there isn’t a man at your side; an older woman had even suggested setting you up on a date with her grandson. You decide that if you don’t see him in the next hour you’re going to head home and regroup. You stand at the edge of the gathering of people and reach for your third glass of wine, but you’re surprised when your fingers bump against something warm. You turn your head and see that it’s a hand--someone had been reaching for the same glass. “I’m so sorry,” you apologize, looking up to meet the woman’s dark eyes and smiling sheepishly.

       “It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention,” she gives a short laugh.

       You smile back at her, happy to hear a genuine laugh for the first time all night. “Your hair is beautiful,” you say conversationally, lifting the glass and handing it to her before picking up one for yourself.

       She seems surprised by the compliment at first but then she lifts her hand and touches the fiery red locks and grins. “Thank you!” She extends her free hand towards you, “I’m Jacqueline, but you can call me Jack. Everyone else does.”

       You accept her handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack. I’m (y/n).” You don’t really care if everyone at the party knows your name because it isn’t affiliated in the slightest with the name Princess. It's easier, to be honest, than to try remembering a fake name anyway. “Should I be stereotypical like everyone else and ask you if you’re here with anyone tonight?”

       She laughs again and it’s infectious. “I know! I’ve been asked by everyone I’ve spoken to like I’m supposed to be on a man’s arm every minute of every day. But if you must know, I’m--” she pauses for an abrupt moment and you catch the slightest twitch of an eyebrow raise before she picks back up again “--here alone.”

       You ignore the strange break in her sentence in favor of raising your glass to her, “Cheers to that.” You spend the next twenty or so minutes speaking to Jack, refreshed by the fact that there’s another gorgeous, single woman at the party. You enjoy her company so much that you momentarily forget that the reason you’re there in the first place is for a job--maybe a bit of female companionship (and not an assassination attempt) is what you need after the recent events. You threw yourself into your work to get your thoughts out of the dark corners of your mind, but maybe it should be friends you should be talking to and confiding in instead. Too late now.

       You’re in the middle of a conversation with Jack about her job (she’s a highly-desired architect and designer around the city) when she suddenly casts her gaze over your shoulder and then gives you a forced smile that edges on something close to worried. “ _Be careful,_ ” she mouths.

       You barely have time to turn your head before a smooth voice speaks from behind you.

       “Good evening, ladies.”

       You turn your head and find the man of the hour standing behind you. He’s taller than he appeared in the photos, and broad enough to fill out the finely crafted suit he’s wearing. His hair is also streaked with much more silver and grey than the photos showed. “Evening,” you greet him with a small bat of your eyelashes.

       He begins to grin at that but reels himself in at the last moment and offers both you and Jack a charming smile. “I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, but I wanted to let you know that you are both positively stunning.”

       So he’s a smooth-talker, interesting; you add it to your mental file on him. You turn to face him fully but not before giving Jack a small wink to reassure her--you thought it was sweet of her to show worry for you the way she had. It reminded you of Caiti. “Am I _stunning_ enough that you’ll buy me one of those drinks the waiters keep walking by with? I seem to have forgotten my clutch at home.” You hope that your straight-forward attempt won’t scare him off. You also hope that he’ll actually take you up on your offer because you’re going to need something a _lot_ stronger to make it through the rest of the night and everything _not_ cheap wine is ridiculously expensive.

       You don’t scare him off, in fact, he seems intrigued. He raises a hand and a waiter approaches within seconds. He orders two whiskey-and-cokes and hands one to you. “You know, it’s dangerous to go out without any money or identification,” he gives you a warning.

       You sense no threat in it, you’re assuming it’s his attempt at playful banter, but it still keeps you on your toes. “There’s no harm done if a gentleman like yourself is around to take care of me,” you reply flirtatiously. Jack keeps casting you glances that you fear will start to get suspicious if Tinkerbell notices, so you sip your drink and slip your arm through his and casually lead him away from the table while talking to him. “What’s your name?” you ask innocently.

       “John. And who might I have the pleasure of accompanying tonight?”

       “(y/n).”

       “A beautiful name that suits a beautiful woman.”

       He’s _so_ cheesy that it makes you want to gag but you act like you’re enamored by the remark. You must be pretty convincing because he keeps you on his arm (so much for not playing the part of arm-candy tonight) and proudly shows you off to everyone who approaches him like he’s the big winner of the lottery tonight. You manage to keep him strung along with witty comments at the right moments and doting at the others, occasionally placing your hand flat against his chest when you’re acting surprised by one of his many stories. You’re glad that you have a history of undercover work or else tonight may have been impossible. At one point during the night he slips his arm around your waist and his hand slides against the bare skin of your lower back and it takes everything that you have not to squirm uncomfortably.

       His touches become more daring as the night continues on. He starts with small gestures like holding you by the waist instead of having you hold his arm when he returns from getting food or drinks, but his hand eventually begins to drift lower, across the curve of your hip, and his grip on you becomes tighter and he pulls your closer to his body. When the party begins to die down and he’s a few drinks deep he shamelessly grabs a handful of your ass and pulls you so that you’re chest-to-chest with him, smirking down at you.

       You glance away like you’re shy, then meet his eyes from underneath your eyelashes. When you’re sure no one else is watching you lean up and brush your ruby-colored lips against his earlobe. “Will you take me home?”

       He agrees almost too enthusiastically and before you know it you’re being man-handled out the door. He gives the valet his ticket and you feel a wave of apprehension wash over you. You don’t want to get into a vehicle with him. In the number of scenarios you played out in your head, this was never how any of them went. You were supposed to seduce him into an alley somewhere and kill him where no one would go looking for him for a long time, but as his car approaches you realize that it’s too late for something like that to play out. He’s grabbing at you again before you can think of an excuse and all but shoving you into the passenger seat of his car. You’re quiet as he begins to drive away from the party, trying to play through new scenarios in your mind. Not many of them are ending well--you just hope that you can kill him _before_ he tries getting you into his bedroom. You startle when you feel a hand on your bare thigh; at some point while you were caught up in trying to figure out what to do his hand had found the slit of your dress. You shudder when you part your legs slightly to keep the switchblade out of reach of his inquisitive fingers and he takes it as a sign that you want more and slides his fingers to your inner-thigh.

       “I’m glad I approached you,” he says sultrily, rubbing circles into your outer-thigh with his thumb.

       “Me too.” You’re beginning to think that maybe you’re in over your head. You feel a spike of panic when he suddenly starts pulling the car over on an empty street that you don’t recognize. “Where are we?” You turn and do your best to look innocent and not scared. “I thought we were going to go to my place?” Your fingers are itching to grab the switchblade but then he’s leaning forward and kissing you and you have to do your best to make him believe you’re into it and not about to get sick.

       “I just can’t wait to have you,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers circle tighter around your thigh. “You know, I’m really flattered.”

       “Why’s that?” You pull back with a sharp gasp when his fingers extend and you feel the knife being slipped from your garter.

       “That you would go so far just to try to kill little ol’ me,” he says, dangling your own weapon in front of your face tauntingly. “Did you really think that someone as **insignificant** as you could take me down, _Princess?_ Do you have any idea who I am?”

       A cold sweat breaks out across your skin. You reach for the door handle, _you need to run_ , but the door swings open behind you before you can touch it and a set of strong hands grab your shoulders and hold your struggling form in place until a cloth is being sealed over your mouth. You try not to inhale but you can’t hold your breath forever and as soon as the chemicals enter your lungs you feel light-headed. Your head lolls back against the shoulder of the man behind you and you see the blurry outline of a face.

       “Do you know just how much of a _pest_ you are? You’ve stolen money from our banks and killed our men, _good_ men--you’ve been a real thorn in our sides recently, Princess,” the man above you speaks.

       You don’t recognize his voice around the rush of blood in your ears but you recognize the saying. _Cobra_ , that no good, slimy, two-faced son-of-a-bitch set you up. You realize that Tinkerbell has been playing you the entire night--while you thought you had him wrapped around your finger it was actually the other way around. You feel a hand grab your face and roughly yank you forward but you have spots in your vision now and it’s becoming harder to recognize shapes. You hear a faint voice that sounds like it’s far away.

       “We have some questions for you, my dear.”

       You’re in over your head.

       You’re in _way_ over your head.

       You can’t believe how stupid you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looooved writing this chapter. I live for drama and suspense. No Geoff or Ryan this time, just the reader getting themselves into a whole heap of trouble all on their own. But don't worry, our boys will be back soon.
> 
> Also yay Jack!


	10. Silent Screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll stay strong no matter what. At least, that's what you hope.
> 
> WARNING: There's torture in this chapter, guys.

       When you wake up you’re in a dark room and you’re bound to a chair. You feel dizzy, your head is pounding, and you’re more nauseous than you’ve ever been in your life. You try to squint against the darkness and get a look at your surroundings but it’s pitch black, then you close your eyes and try to listen for any sort of sound, a car going by or chatter on the street, but you don’t hear anything at all. The fact that you have no idea where you are, what time it is, or how long you’ve been unconscious makes you even more uneasy ( _terrified_ , your subconscious supplies, but you’re too stubborn to admit it). You can’t tell for sure but you think your wrists and ankles are bound with leather straps, and you feel something around your waist and thighs but you can’t tell what through the fabric of your dress. You jerk your body violently against the restraints but they don’t budge and neither does the chair. You fight anyway, until your skin is raw beneath the leather and your joints are screaming in protest.

       You’re not sure how long you sit there but it feels like hours. You try to remain calm but every minute that ticks by leaves you more panicked than the last. You have no idea why you’re here or what they could possibly want from you--other than perhaps information on where you’re keeping the money that you apparently stole from them; you don’t know how they’ll try to get that information out of you and you don’t want to find out. Or maybe they just want to torture you before they kill you--your brain supplies vivid images of the dismembered men in the streets on the files Caiti gave you and it makes your nausea worse. You feel like such an idiot for falling into their trap so easily--you should have had backup, you should never have gotten into the car with Tinkerbell, you should have spent more time investing in research about both him _and_ Cobra, but you wanted something to keep your mind off Geoff and Ryan so you dove into the job too quickly. It was a rookie mistake and it’s entirely your fault. Now you definitely have something else on your mind.

       Time passes slowly. You think that it’s been maybe a day, give or take; you don’t have much of a sense of time, what with having no windows or sound to go by, so you’re just guessing. You’re starving and you’re dehydrated and you try to focus on _that_ rather than how fucking scared you are. You’re starting to think that maybe Tinkerbell was lying when he said they had questions for you--maybe they got the information they wanted from someone else and they’re just going to leave you to rot in this room now. You’re not honestly sure if torture or slowly withering away scares you more. You don’t have to think on it too much longer because you soon hear voices nearby, muffled through the walls.

       A door opens to behind you. The light from outside penetrates through the dark of the room and you see the silhouette of a man on the wall briefly before the door shuts and it’s black once again. All of a sudden the room is filled with bright, fluorescent light and it _burns_ so bad after countless hours of being in the dark that you’re forced to shut your eyes. You hear footsteps circling around you and a chuckle that you recognize; you crack an eye open and look up at Tinkerbell.

       He’s smirking down at you, so obviously proud of himself. “It’s a real shame to see you like this,” he says, then frowns theatrically at you. “I wasn’t kidding when I told you how beautiful you are, but now…” He reaches forward and twirls a strand of your hair around his fingers, “Now you look so pathetic.”

       You glare at him as best you can, then savagely bite at his fingers--you might not be able to move your hands but you’d be _damned_ if you’re just going to sit still and let him touch you like that. Your teeth clack together hard when you miss, but he pulled his hand back fast and, for just a moment, looked frightened. You feel a surge of pride, even as he slaps you across your face hard enough that your lip splits open. You just laugh.

       “You bitch,” he hisses. He slaps you once more before he straightens his posture and adjusts his tie, but even as he assumes his neutral expression you know you’ve won the first round. “I’m assuming that you’re not going to be a good girl and comply with our demands.”

       “Depends, what are your demands?” You keep your tone smug--you’re already set on making this as difficult and as frustrating as possible for them. You think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.

       He leans forward to place a finger under your chin and lift your head until he can look you in the eyes. “First, all you need to do is tell us the names of your banks and give us your account numbers. We want the money you owe us back, with interest, of course. That one should be pretty easy for you. Second, give us the names of all of your informants and of any others you know as well. And third, we want everything that you have on the Fake AH Crew.”

       Your eyes snap wide and you pull angrily away from his hold on you. You expected them to want your money, part of you was even expecting that they would try to squeeze the names of your contacts out of you, but why the hell was he questioning you about the Fakes? “Apparently someone didn’t do their research. I work alone.”

       He steps out of your line of sight and then you hear a loud screeching as he drags a small table across the floor until it’s sitting in front of you. He taps his finger against some photos sitting on top of the metal surface. They’re photos of you; some are graphic, like Ryan pushing you against the wall with your pants around your ankles, but a few of the pictures they have show you and the Vagabond from some of the first nights you were with him. Other photos show you and Geoff on dates, in your apartment, and some are even taken from outside his apartment. You’re struck with fear at the idea that they’ve been watching you for so long. “I think that you’re lying,” Tinkerbell says matter-o-factly. “But it’s okay, I don’t mind too much.” He snaps his fingers and the door opens again and two men dressed in black walk in. “These boys, however, let’s just say they don’t really like being lied to.”

       He turns away from you to address them and you carefully test your restraints again--you’re tied in good and the chair is bolted to the floor, same as the last time you checked. You eye both men warily and they look back at you with cold, calculative stares. Your confidence is beginning to wane.

       “Boys, start with level one. You know the drill if she doesn’t start talking,” Tinkerbell tells them.

       “What? Not sticking around for the _fun_ part?” You ask the question and then gather up all the saliva you can and spit it as his feet.

       He sneers at you, “I don’t care to get my hands dirty.”

       He leaves the room on that note and you have a sinking feeling that he won the second round because his words make your fingers shake and your heart race. The men stand silently in front of you for a long time, just staring at you--it makes your skin crawl. You keep a level gaze with them, determined not to show any weakness, but you still jump when one of them throws a cordless clock onto the small table, sending the pictures of you flying in different directions. The clock-face reads 30 minutes in bright green numbers.

       You swallow nervously because now it’s  _real_ , you’re alone with two men who are meant to torture you. You’ve had run-ins with men sent after you before, but never anything close to this. You need to buy yourself time, try to figure out some way to escape, so you say the first thing that comes to your mind. “I don’t even get an introduction first? Am I just supposed to call you _goon one_ and _goon two?_ ”

       They ignore you completely. Goon one reaches forward, presses a button on the clock, and the numbers begin ticking down. “Tell us where the money is.”

       You straighten your back and square your shoulders. They aren’t holding anything yet, so you assume _level one_ means fists only. “No.” The first fist hits you in the cheek so hard that you feel something crack. It’s followed up by a kick to your shin, then another and another until the skin of your leg breaks open and you’re crying out for him to stop.

       “Tell us where the money is,” Goon two repeats.

       You know that this is only the beginning of things, that there’s much more, much _worse_ pain in store for you. They’ll break you, every part of you, trying to get what they want, but if you don’t give it to them you win no matter what--they can break your body but not your pride. So you lift your chin up and glare at the men. “No.” The next punch hits your eye and creates colored spots in your vision, and the next has you coughing up blood into your lap.

       “Make sure she doesn’t lose consciousness,” one of them says. “Give her face a break.”

       You cough again and blood drools down your chin. “But you guys looked like you were having so much fun.” Goon one steps out of your range of vision and when he returns he’s holding what looks like a police baton. You feel your face drain of color--you were apparently wrong about level one.

       “You sure you don’t wanna answer our question now?” he asks.

       You give him as much of a smile as you can. “Pretty sure.” You don’t think he hits you as hard as he can, but the blow to your arm is hard enough that you cry out again. It’s more intense than the punches, the pain more concentrated. He follows it up with another hit to your right wrist, and then to your knuckles. It rattles your bones and you scream. You try not to cry in front of them, no  _weakness_ , but tears are sliding wetly down your face along with your blood before you can stop it. They beat you with fists and wood and metal until your kneecap is out of place and your ribs are cracked--if this is level one you don’t want to see level two.

       By the time your thirty minutes is up your hand is bloody and broken, your body is covered in forming bruises, and your eye is swollen shut. When either of the men raise a fist to you you flinch away, but you still haven’t given them what they want and that’s something you can be proud of.

       “Stubborn bitch,” one of them mutters, picking up the clock. “We’ll get what we want from you sooner or later.”

       They leave, turn off the light before they go, and you’re left alone in the dark once more. As soon as the door shuts you cry and scream into the blackness. You scream for help, for someone, _anyone_ , to save you, you scream for the damnation of anyone who lays their hands on you, you scream and you scream until you physically can’t anymore. Everything hurts, not the pleasant ache that Ryan leaves you with but a bone-deep pain that ignites your every nerve. Your shin stings where the rubber of one of their boots tore open your skin, and you can feel cooling blood pooling in the strap around your ankle. You can’t shift in your seat at all without one of your battered bones shooting blinding pain into your system so you sit as still as possible in the uncomfortable chair.

       You want to go home to your bed. You want to see Geoff’s smiling face. Hell, even Ryan’s rough treatment would be a welcome distraction right now. But it doesn’t matter if that’s what you want now, it’ll never matter--you kicked them out of your life. You have no one looking for you, no one who will care if you’re gone. You have nothing anymore. You want to tell them how _sorry_ you are, but you’ll never see them again.

       Your apology to them will be in keeping their information safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting darker, man. It's only going to keep getting darker for a while here.


	11. Sinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think it could get much worse than the beating. You were wrong.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter also contains torture. It's a theme.

       You don’t sleep at all. The pain is too intense and you’re too _afraid_ so you stare at nothing for what feels like hours. Every throb from every injury makes you wonder how long you’ll be able to hold on, and thinking about that only leads you to think about all of the terrible things they could do to you. You imagine pliers tearing off your fingernails and small creatures chewing on your flesh and it’s enough to make you cry all over again-- crying hurts your swollen eye and your gasping breaths make your cracked ribs ache and then you start wondering again how much more pain you can take. It’s a vicious cycle that doesn’t break until you hear the door creak open behind you.

       You’re ready for the light this time so you close your good eye before they flip it on. Each heavy footstep as the men enter the room makes your body quiver and when you hear the distinct sound of _something_ being rolled in from the hallway you begin shaking uncontrollably. A strong, gloved hand grabs your jaw and roughly forces your head back. You barely have time to open your eye and see goon one before a towel is placed over your face. Your heart-rate spikes and you struggle to get out of his grasp but he uses his other hand to press down on your broken fingers until you’re screaming--he doesn’t let up until you’re sitting completely still.

       They don’t ask you any questions. In fact, they’re completely silent when they start pouring the first bucket of water over your face. It rapidly fills your mouth and your nose through the towel and you try to turn your head away but the hand on your jaw is holding you tight. You close your mouth but you have no way to plug your nose and it _burns_ so bad that soon you’re opening your mouth again to gasp for breath--the water doesn’t stop. You cough violently but it serves only to let more water down into your lungs and make you cough more. You jerk your body uselessly, trying to get away as your need for air becomes desperate. When the water stops and the hand on your jaw releases its grip you rock your body forward. The towel hits the soaked floor with a wet smack and you cough up enough liquid to fill a few glasses.

       You only have a few seconds of reprieve, just enough to gasp one or two lungfuls of precious air, before your head is being yanked back again and the towel is thrown back over your face. You don’t have time to draw in another breath before they’re pouring water over you again, and this time they don’t let up so quickly. It forcibly pours from your mouth and nose into your stomach and lungs until you’re sputtering and begging them to stop with a voice distorted by the flowing fluid and towel. Your ears begin to ring--it’s a different kind of pain than the brute force of your beating yesterday (was it really yesterday? It could have been _days_ ago for all you know) but it still fucking _hurts_ and the knowledge that you’re **drowning** only makes you struggle that much more. When the man lets you go this time you lean forward and cough until you’re retching what little contents you have in your stomach onto the floor. The goons make disgusted noises behind you but it’s difficult to hear them over the sound of your own dry heaving.

       Your throat and nose are positively on firenow with the combination of water and stomach acid, and your mouth is sour. You feel the hand on your jaw again and your mind goes into a frenzy. You cry out the name of one of your banks, followed by the codes that they need to access your account. You feel shame burning in the pit of your stomach but you know you went into survival mode--you’re not sure your body can stand more of the waterboarding.

       “There’s more than one account,” one of them says.

       Your hair is grabbed this time and the force the man uses to drag your head back into place feels strong enough to tear your scalp from your skull. You try to beg them to stop but the towel is over your face and the water is back in your lungs before you have time to form the first word. You struggle against your restraints and to get away from them until you physically _can’t_ anymore--your body still hurts so bad from the last session and it’s quickly becoming harder and harder to fight. You think that you might die like this, by asphyxiation--it’s like a fucking **nightmare** and it gives you just enough strength to keep going. The second they stop pouring the water you cough up everything in your system again and then positively _sob_ and shout the names of your other banks and account numbers at them.

       You stay like that, hunched over in your chair and sobbing, the floor around you covered in water and vomit, until you feel one of them caress the back of your head. You don’t have the strength left anymore to pull away from him.

       “What a good girl you’ve been today,” one of them says. “Maybe we should have started with the water.”

       You hear footsteps and movement around you but you don’t look up, even when you hear them rolling the buckets of water out of the room. It’s quiet for a long time after that; you think they might be gone but the light is still on so you have a feeling they’ll be back. When their footsteps return you can’t stop your body from shaking again. You flinch away when one of them approaches you and then you feel a shock of surprise when you feel his hands on your restraints.

       “ _Don’t_ fucking try anything,” goon one warns you once he gets one of your hands free. “Or else Tinkerbell will let you sit in your filth next time.”

       You don’t think you could run if you wanted to right now anyway--but that doesn’t mean you won’t try. You stay still as the man undoes all of your bindings, but you hiss in protest when he grabs your arm and drags you to your feet. You’re lucky (if you can call it that) that your displaced kneecap and busted up shin are on the same leg because you can use the less-beaten one to balance on. Goon two steps behind you to put a blindfold around your eyes but you duck with surprising agility despite your wounds and haul ass towards the door. Your bare feet slip in the water and you slide into the hallway wall outside but _fuck_ , you’re outside, you’re not in that _room_ anymore, so you find your footing and move as quickly as you can. You’re disoriented and you don’t know the layout of the building and your leg is on **fire** from putting weight on it when you shouldn’t be, your lungs are also burning from overuse after clearing so much water out of them--you only get as far as the first corner before something metal collides with the back of your head. You fall instantly and you hear voices behind you but it sounds like someone is talking to you from behind a wall. You reach up and touch your head, feel the sticky warmth of blood in your hair, and then someone is grabbing your arm and dragging you across the floor like a ragdoll.

       You’re thrown (quite literally _thrown_ , you land hard on your shoulder on the cement floor and curse loudly) into a room that looks similar to the one you were just in except it’s completely empty. You curl yourself into a ball against the far wall, awaiting whatever punishment you’ll get for trying to escape--it was a stupid, futile attempt but you don’t regret it. It shows that they haven’t broken you yet.

       “That was _really_ fucking stupid of you,” a voice above you says. You think it’s goon one again but he still sounds far away so you’re not sure. He kicks you right in the stomach hard enough that you cough up blood and some of the remaining water still in your system, and then he kneels down next to you. “You stink, you dumb bitch. Take off your dress or I’ll take it off for you.”

       You don’t like the idea of taking off your dress but you like the idea of _him_ removing it even less so you slowly roll into a sitting position and carefully slip the garment off. The goon stands and a moment later there’s water being sprayed at you, as if someone is aiming a hose at you. Though it’s been only _minutes_ , you have vivid memories of how it felt to nearly drown so you scream and cover your face and beg for them to stop. You think you hear them laughing. They leave you a shivering, terrified mess on the floor and you don’t move from that position until you hear boot-heels clicking against the concrete in front of you.

       Tinkerbell squats down near you and grabs you by the ear to forcibly pull you until you're on your knees. “You’ve got a lot of fire in you,” he admits, then leans in closer until his lips brush your ear just as you had done to him at the party, “but if you _ever_ try anything stupid like that again, I’ll have them cut the tendons behind your knees.” You feel more than see his smirk when your body practically begins to convulse at his threat--you feel _pitiful_. He stands and wipes the blood from your skin off on his pant-leg. “I was going to have you rewarded for being so good and giving us some of the info we wanted, but after that little stunt you’re not eating tonight, and you might not eat tomorrow night either.” He pauses as he’s just about to leave. “And (y/n), _don’t_ make me get my hands dirty again, okay?” He flips the light off and closes the door.

       You slump against the wall as soon as you’re by yourself and your stomach growls, as if mocking you for your stupidity. Your head is throbbing where you got hit and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing. The cool water feels good against some of the wounds on your body, but you’re absolutely drenched and the floor of the room you’re in is now covered in water as well. You’re not sure if it’s better than being tied to the chair or not but at least your wrists and ankles feel better now. You huff and crawl around the room as best you can with a busted knee until you find a dry spot in one of the corners near the door. The second you lay down you feel tears running down your face again. Level one was _beating_ , level two was _waterboarding_...if the levels continue to get that much worse each time you probably won’t survive tomorrow. You’re starting to think that it might be easier if you don’t.

       You don’t scream this time, you’re too exhausted and you know that you need to conserve what little energy you have left, but you do cry. You shut your eyes and you cry until you fall into a sleep filled with nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just more of the dark stuff. Geoff and Ryan will be involved (a little) in the next chapter, though!


	12. Burning Never Smelled So Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get your first pleasant surprise since your nightmare began.
> 
> WARNING: You guessed it. More torture.

       You lose track of time quickly in the dark room. Enough time has passed for the bleeding on your shin and on your head to stop and form gross scabs, but it’s not much to go by. You manage to find your dress where you had left it against the far wall and you tear pieces of the fabric into strips to wrap up your broken fingers with--it helps with the pain, a little. You use the remainder of the dress as a pillow, regardless of the fact that it’s sopping wet.

       You’re starving, but you manage to stave off dehydration by sipping water from the floor when you need to--it’s disgusting and every time you accidentally touch a puddle without meaning to you retract your hand as if it were acid, but it’s keeping you alive so you can’t complain. You spend as much time as you can sleeping, that is, when your mind isn’t screaming at you to find a way out and your subconscious isn’t plaguing you with ideas about how you’ll probably die here. You’re trying to re-energize your body, and to heal faster. Unfortunately, without a proper diet, you’re not getting anywhere fast. More often than not you spend your time lying down without sleeping, and, more often than that, when you finally do fall asleep you’re woken up by nightmares of drowning.

       When you wake up from your nightmares you always think about Geoff. The memories you have of him make you smile and, despite the way things ended between the two of you, you’re glad that you met him and that you were able to spend the time with him that you did. You even manage to laugh at the memories of wanting to get revenge on the Fake AH Crew for interrupting your robbery--part of you still thinks it would be fun to steal their shit just to mess with them now, but you’ll never have that chance. It feels like so long ago when in reality it has only been about a month since that time. It’s amazing how much can change in a month.

       You keep hoping that your fear will begin to ebb eventually, that the more time you spend in the dark room the less frightened you’ll be when the men finally come back for more information. You assume that they’re taking so long this time because they’re busy transferring every penny of your money into their accounts--you can’t be too mad that they’re stealing it since it sounds like you won’t have any use for money by the time this is over.

       You think that it’s probably been close to a week that you’ve been here now. You occasionally hear footsteps in the hallway outside, you’re not sure if it’s some kind of patrol but you think that you hear them around the same time every day (or night, or maybe it’s day _and_ night and your sense of time in the dark room is so warped that you can’t tell the difference between twelve hours and twenty-four). You use those footsteps as a judgement of days regardless because, even if it’s wrong, it’s better than being completely oblivious as to how much time is passing. With every round of footsteps the sliver of hope you have that someone _might_ be searching for you gets smaller.

       Five days (in footstep rounds) pass before anyone opens the door to your room. You’re so hungry that your body is starting to thin, so when goon two flips on the light and haphazardly throws a plate of food down on the floor you immediately drag yourself over to it and eat everything on the plate.

       “Aren’t you a pathetic sight,” he says as he watches you.

       You take the plate and throw it back towards his feet when you’re finished with it. “Your boss seemed to think I was pretty beautiful,” you say with a sneer. You barely recognize your own voice it’s so scratchy from under-use. You move back to your corner, expecting-- _hoping_ \--that his only job was to bring you the food today. You’re sorely mistaken.

       He grabs you under your arm and lifts you up off the ground just in time for goon one to walk in holding a chair. He sets it in the middle of the room and they bind your wrists and ankles with chains before sitting you down in it. “Boss thinks scars are beautiful,” goon two finally replies to your remark, trailing a gloved finger along the scar on your neck. There’s something sinister in his voice that makes you uneasy--you wonder if level three has anything to do with knives. They face you away from the door so that you can’t see what goon one is wheeling into the room now, but the last time you heard that sound they almost filled your lungs with water so your body instantly tenses with fear.

       “Boss also thought you looked a bit _cold_ last time he saw you,” goon one says from somewhere behind you.

       You hear something then that makes all the blood drain from your face--the distinct sound of fire from a propane torch. You just ate for the first time in a long time and already you feel like you’re about to throw it up. The two men circle you slowly, almost predatory, and you notice that it’s not only a torch that he’s holding but also a thin metal rod, about the same diameter as a pencil.

       Goon two places his hands on your shoulders and holds you firmly while goon one stands right in front of you and places the tip of the rod into the flame. You watch with an increasing heart-rate as the metal begins to glow red-hot. “Tell us about the Fake AH Crew,” the man in front of you says. “Start with their names, just so we’re sure you’re not lying.”

       You bite your tongue. You thought they were going to ask you about your contacts, the second option on Tinkerbell’s list, but they jumped right to number three. That bastard probably told them it would be more difficult ( _impossible_ , you remind yourself) to get that information out of you. Goon one is still staring expectantly at you. “I’m not telling you anything,” you say. Your heart sinks when his face breaks into a positively maniacal grin.

       “Good,” he laughs. “Make sure to make today fun, you cracked way too fast last time.” He moves the metal rod close to your face, so that you can feel the heat radiating off of it in waves, and then he presses the flat side of it along your collarbone.

       You scream louder than you thought possible--you don’t think you’ve ever felt such an intense pain before, aside maybe from getting shot. You watch through teary eyes as he moves the rod away from you and it takes some of your skin along with it; the sight makes you gag. You’re left with a bubbly, red line across your clavicle that burns even now when the metal is no longer touching you. Goon one is smiling sinisterly down at you, even as you grind your teeth together to keep your mouth shut.

       “She’s a real trooper,” goon two says sarcastically. “I guess money isn’t as important to her as a good _fuck_.”

       You feel a surge of anger but it’s drowned out by pain when the metal is pressed to your sternum, and then to the tender part of your arm just below the crook of your elbow. You’d be surprised if everyone in the whole damn building doesn’t hear you scream. By the time he’s pressing the sixth mark into your back you think your nerves are beginning to shut down because it doesn’t hurt as bad anymore--you know it’s happening, the smell of your own flesh burning fills your nostrils, but the sensation is dull. They must notice because soon they have the metal rod about an inch from the skin right beneath your non-swollen eye and you’re screaming like your life depends on it. You think you’re about to lose your eye when the door behind you suddenly slams open and angry footsteps punctuated with the click of boot-heels fill the room.

       “If you want to make sure she’s alive so bad then _here_ ,” Tinkerbell all but yells, thrusting a cellphone into your face.

       You stare with one wide, terrified eye at an image of Geoff and you’re entirely _confused_ until you see his fists clench and his face begin to get red and holy shit he’s _moving_ , that’s _him_ , that’s-- “ _Geoff!_ ” you cry desperately, but you’re quickly silenced when Tinkerbell slaps you.

       You can faintly hear Geoff’s voice on the phone and it sounds better than anything you’ve ever heard. “I swear to _fuck_ , if you lay another finger on her--!”

       “I’ll do you one better.” Tinkerbell takes the torch, thrusts the phone into goon one’s hands, and demands he keeps the camera trained on you. You don’t mind because it means the screen is facing you and you get to see Geoff’s face and it makes you feel so fucking _happy_ that nothing else matters. You stare at him and memorize the lines of his face and the patterns of his tattoos like it’s the last time you’ll ever see him, but you notice that he’s not looking at you, that he’s looking _behind_ you where Tinkerbell walked, and when you see his blue eyes widen you feel frightened again.

       “ _Tinkerbell!_ ” You’ve never heard Geoff sound so angry, not even during your argument.

       The torch starts up again and Geoff is yelling something unintelligible and in the next moment you can’t hear him at all over the sound of your screams. Whatever just touched your back was much, much larger than a metal rod, and the pain feels like it’s going to rip you apart. Fresh tears spill from your eyes but you force the good one to stay open because you _need_ to see Geoff for as long as you can. The camera turns suddenly and Ryan’s black skeleton mask takes over the screen.

       His voice is just as deep as you remember it being, but it’s **so** good to hear it again. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life, mother _fucker_.” Then the camera goes black.

       Tinkerbell lets out an indignant roar behind you and you hear something large and metal clatter to the ground. You barely have time to look and see that it’s a brand (a fucking **brand** in the shape of a _fairy_ ) before he has ahold of your face so tight that your cracked cheekbone moves under his thumb. “How the fuck did they find out?!” he screams at you.

       You feel flecks of spit hit you in the face but you can’t find it in yourself to care right now. “How am I supposed to know?” you ask.

       He lets go of your face and slaps you again, and then a second and a third time. He’s panting when he’s finished but he doesn’t try to play it off this time. He grabs his phone back and takes a fistful of goon one’s collar. “You get the information out of her and you _make her wish she was never born_.”

       You laugh loudly, suddenly, and it’s the first time in so long that you’ve felt such genuine joy.

       Tinkerbell’s face goes almost purple it’s so red. “And what the fuck is it that’s so funny?!”

       They’re coming for you. Geoff and Ryan and the Fake AH Crew, they’re coming for you. You haven’t been alone this whole time because somehow, someway they found out you were missing and now they’re coming to save you. You laugh harder, until the tears in your eyes are from happy laughter rather than pain. You feel relief for the first time, because Tinkerbell is so pissed because he’s _afraid_ , and it just makes you laugh that much harder.

       “What the hell are you laughing at?!”

       You crack open an eye and meet his gaze and give him a wicked grin. “You’re so, so, _so_ fucked!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite possibly my favorite chapter I've written so far. Having Tinkerbell so pissed off was delightful.


	13. Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fakes finally make their move to save you.
> 
> WARNING: Torture

       It’s been two weeks; you know for sure because they tell you now, like they think telling you how long it’s been without the Fakes trying to rescue you will make you give up hope. They keep you in the dark room and feed you little to nothing, just some scraps every three or four days. It’s barely enough to keep you alive and you feel your ribs becoming more and more prominent as the days pass. In the moments that you’re not eating you stay huddled up in the corner of your room and mutter unintelligible words to your walls, and in the moments that you’re not doing _that_ you’re being tortured.

       They don’t stop trying to get information out of you. They’re getting more and more desperate about it as the days go on and their frustration is so palpable that you can almost _taste_ it and it makes you laugh and laugh and _laugh_ until you can’t breathe. That is, you laugh when you’re not screaming. You’ve had your skin cut open with knives, your back whipped until it was raw and bloodied, and you’ve been beaten to the point that you fell unconscious more times than you can count now. You thought that the pain would eventually begin to numb, that at some point it would ease until their methods felt like nothing more than phantom sensations, but they somehow find new ways to hurt you every time. You feel terrible for cracking during some of the sessions--when they were breaking your collarbone with a piece of a pipe, or holding your face underwater until they actually had to give you CPR (that one was a product of goon one’s anger, Tinkerbell wasn’t very happy and forbade any form of asphyxiation afterwards). You blurt out a few names of contacts that have turned on you when the pain is too much to handle, and when that doesn’t satisfy them you give them more. The names of your contacts tumble out of your mouth unwarranted but you’re so fucking _exhausted_ , even knowing the Fakes are trying to rescue you you’re so tired of crying and screaming and being in pain. You can still feel the bitter taste of Caiti’s name on your tongue when you gave them her name; they were pleased enough with that one that they fed you a little extra that night--you were so disgusted with yourself that you didn’t eat any of it.

       When they had your fingers dangling over acid you gave them the names of every Fake AH Crew member you knew. You gave them Geoff’s address, and the names of the territories you knew they controlled. It was like a dam suddenly broke and you couldn’t hold it back any longer--you just didn’t want to _hurt_ anymore. For once you’re  _really_ glad you don’t have much intel on the group because there’s no good information you can give them--unfortunately for you that means they think you’re lying when you tell them you’ve given them everything you know. Still, even if it was relatively trivial stuff, you still weren’t able to keep your promise to the crew. You don’t know how you’ll ever face them if you see them again. They don’t stop torturing you, even after you’ve given them all that you can. Your body is so weak from the pain and fatigue that you can hardly lift yourself anymore so they take to dragging your across the floor when they need to.

       Admittedly, as time continues to pass and you feel your will to go on slipping, you do begin to get a little nervous. What if the Fakes never find you? What if they already stopped looking? What if they **do** find you but they get hurt trying to save you? What if Tinkerbell told them that you leaked their info? You can’t stop the “ _what ifs_ ” from seeping into your thoughts but every time you feel any doubt you think of the _look_ on Geoff’s face or the _rage_ in Ryan’s voice and it makes you feel better. You know that they aren’t going to give up on you, but you hope you can last long enough for them to find you.

       It’s halfway through the third week when you wake up to the sounds of gunshots and frantic shouting. It’s _happening_ , it has to be them, it can’t possibly be anyone else. Despite that knowledge you still cower in the corner and hide your face when the door to your room is thrown open--like you think that it’ll make you disappear, like you’ve tried every single time one of the goons came for you. You flinch away when footsteps quickly approach you; you don’t have any time to even _hope_ for it to be Ryan or Geoff before Tinkerbell grabs you by the back of your neck and drags you to your feet.

       “Time to pay your friends a little visit,” he says cruelly, jamming the barrel of a handgun under your jaw. “I’m honestly surprised they came for someone as pitiful as you.” He twists the arm behind your back that’s attached to your splintered collarbone and you cry out. He doesn’t even flinch, shoving you forward to get you to move but your bad knee buckles and you fall over. “You’re fucking useless!” he shouts at you.

       You feel the heel of his expensive boot touch the back of your head and then he kicks you and your face lands painfully against the cold floor. You see the shadow of his foot hover over your head but you can’t fight, can’t even _move_ , so you close your eyes--you never imagined you’d die having your head crushed beneath a foot. You say a silent apology to Geoff and to Ryan and to the rest of the crew for the time they wasted trying to save you.

       The foot never comes down. You realize that your ears are ringing but you’re not sure why--somewhere distant you hear shouting. You feel fingers touch your shoulder and you recoil harshly, trying to scramble away but your body isn’t listening to you at all. You reach forward and dig your fingernails against the concrete, trying with everything you have to drag your body away from _whoever_ is trying to kill you now. The muffled sounds around you begin to grow clearer and you hear someone calling your name. You’re forcibly flipped over suddenly and you come face to face with a black mask. You know somewhere deep in your mind that it’s Ryan, but your eyes see a distorted face that they don’t recognize, the demonic personification of the torture you’ve been enduring for nearly a _month_ and you start screaming and crying because now that you’re faced with the possibility of being rescued all you can imagine is getting kidnapped again and your mind is frantic: _no more, no more, no more, please!_  

       Ryan doesn’t know what to do, can’t figure out how to calm you down, can’t grab you or shake you at all because your entire body is covered in deep wounds and matted blood, so he scoops you up in his arms gently. You struggle weakly against his hold but your fists against his shoulders and back feel like playful swats and your body is light enough that if he leans you over his shoulder just a bit he can support the rest of your weight with one arm. He does just that, and uses the other to keep his gun trained on Tinkerbell--not that he’ll be moving anywhere after Ryan shot him in the kneecap. He wants to take his time with the man, make him suffer the same amount that you have ten times over, but he doesn’t have time right now. Right now he needs to get you medical attention. “We’re coming back for you,” he tells the man who is still writhing on the floor. “And when we find you, I’m starting with your toes and working my way up.”

       The Vagabond turns and makes his way through the hallways as fast as he can. You’ve stopped struggling against him but now you’re crying and pleading with him not to kill you in a broken voice that makes him angrier than he expected. He taps the button on his earpiece through the mask and speaks into the intercom, “I’ve got her. Making my way out now.”

       “Where do you think you’re going with that?” someone shouts over the barrage of hollers and gunshots ringing through the building.

       Ryan doesn’t have time to duck out of the way when he hears the gunshot, but he does turn just in time for the bullet to hit his shoulder instead of you. He bears his teeth and struggles momentarily to keep you from falling to the ground; it’s been a while since he was last shot and it hurts a little more than he remembered. Once he’s sure you’re not going to slip from his grasp he turns and levels his gun at the man who shot him. “You’re a pretty stupid man.”

       “I can’t let you take the only source of entertainment in this place,” the man shrugs. His words cause the Vagabond’s shoulders to visibly tense and he smirks triumphantly. “I know you’ve fucked her but have you ever really gotten her to _scream?_ It’s pretty, I think it’ll really get your rocks off.”

       The Vagabond’s eyes go icy and he carefully sets you down against the wall, being sure to keep himself between you the the man with the gun. “Good news,” he says in a sing-song sort of way. “You just ended my murder break.”

       You hear a series of gunshots followed by blood-curdling screams and it makes your stomach churn. You _want_ to look away but you can’t seem to take your eyes off the masked figure as he knocks goon one--a man who had almost killed you more than a handful of times--to the ground, pulls a blade from his belt, and begins **slowly** carving away pieces of the man’s body. You stare, transfixed, until the screaming finally stops and then you realize suddenly that he’s probably coming for _you_ next. You try frantically to drag yourself across the floor, feeling your nails splitting as you dig them fruitlessly into the ground. You don’t make it very far before the masked man is standing over you--the sight of blood dripping from his skull-shaped face is enough to make you scream for help.

       Ryan kneels down and slowly reaches for you, but you whimper and retract away from his hands. “(y/n),” he calls to you gently. “(y/n), it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

       You hide your face in your hands, “ _Please don’t kill, I don’t want to die, please--_ ”

       He can hear his crew over the intercom, their insistent voices demanding where he is, if you’re alright, why they heard screaming. “(y/n)!” His voice comes out louder than he meant it to and he regrets it when you snap your mouth shut and your body begins to shake uncontrollably. He gently takes ahold of your wrists to pull them away from your face and does the only thing he can think to calm you down. He reaches up and pulls the mask off his face. “(y/n),” he calls to you again.

       The voice is clearer now and when you look up you don’t see the face of _whatever_ it was that was trying to kill you before. You see blonde hair, longer than you expected, and soft blue eyes that you finally recognize staring back at you. You use the last of your energy to throw your arms around his neck and cling to his frame despite how much it hurts. The pain, the suffering, they don’t matter anymore because you’re _f_ _inally_ safe. “ _Ryan_ ,” you sob--it’s the first time you’ve used his real name and it feels good on your tongue. “I’m so sorry, I’m so _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to talk, I just didn’t want them to _hurt_ me anymore,” you babble, nearly incoherent.

       He hushes you and wraps strong arms around your frail body to hug you against himself. “I’m here,” he says. “You’re safe.” He runs a hand soothingly through your matted hair, then coughs and sways forward unintentionally. “But I don’t think I can carry you anymore.”

       You want to ask what he means but you feel something warm, much warmer than what a body should feel like, against your chest where you’re pressed up against Ryan. Your body is already covered your own dried blood so you can’t tell it’s _his_ until you lean back and press a hand against his chest and he winces. You remember with sudden clarity that he was shot in the shoulder while carrying you.

       He must notice the worry on your face (how he notices you’ll never know because you’re sure your face is hardly recognizable as a face at this point) because he assures you that it’s _fine_ and then twists so he can sit against the wall alongside you. He struggles to shrug off his jacket and a hoarse gasp leaves your throat when you see the white shirt soaked through with blood beneath.

       You fight through swollen eyes and the haze of tears to count the number of bullet holes--one in his shoulder, one in his arm, another lower, towards the side of his stomach. Then you notice that his eyes are beginning to slip shut. You scramble to grab at his earpiece and as soon as it’s in your grasp you push the button down and shout hysterically at it: “Someone, _please_ , Ryan is hurt!” You hear staticky voices shouting back at you but you’re too busy sliding your hands along Ryan’s face to pay attention to them. “Ryan, _Ryan_ , I need you to open your eyes.” The adrenaline racing through your body is enough to hurt--you know it’s the only thing keeping you upright, that as soon as it fades you’re going to be useless again.

       Ryan slowly extends his arm and grabs at his mask where it sits beside you on the floor. He drags it towards himself and pulls it back over his face, his ragged breathing amplified behind it. He tilts his head back against the wall and huffs out a weak laugh. “This isn’t the rescue I was hoping for.”

       The mask doesn’t scare you anymore--you’re so terrified looking at the rise and fall of Ryan’s chest as his breathing grows more shallow that you don’t have time to think about your previous fear. This is exactly what you were afraid of; they came to save you and now Ryan is injured. Your hands shake as you clutch as best you can at his blood-soaked shirt. You hear footsteps approaching from somewhere close but you don’t move from your position next to the masked man until a pair of arms lift you from the ground. You see Geoff’s worried face and turn your head to watch as men you don’t recognize help Ryan up off the ground.

       “Why the fuck did you go and get yourself shot?!” the curly-headed one sounds more annoyed than concerned. “You’re lucky we got this building cleared out while you were pussy-footing around down here.”

       “You dumb heroic bastard,” the other mutters.

       "Holy _fuck!_ " curly shouts as he lifts one of Ryan's arms and gets it over his shoulder. His gaze is on what remains of goon-one in the center of the hallway a few feet down. "Jesus _Christ_ , Ryan, so much for murder break!"

       "Trust me," Ryan breathes. "He was quite literally asking for it."

       You think your adrenaline is finally running out because the pain is starting to come back in waves. You can faintly hear Geoff murmuring things into your ear as he carries you outside, but the second sunlight floods your vision and you get a breath of fresh-air you stop trying to listen. You break down immediately, every emotion you’ve been holding onto for the past weeks--the pain, the fear, the sadness--you let go of them all at once and Geoff holds you tightly as you wail uncontrollably.

       The crying drains you enough that you fall asleep curled into Geoff’s side in the car unmarked car.

       You wake up from a nightmare about being slowly burned alive and find yourself in a bright white room. You feel straps around one of your wrists and both of your ankles, a mask over your face, and something in your arm and it sends you into an immediate panic. It isn’t until you start struggling that you realize the mask is connected to a tube that has been pushed down your throat; it’s making it harder to breath, making your chest burn, like it felt when they were pouring the water over you. A heart-monitor you can’t see begins beeping faster as you start coughing and gagging, trying desperately to get whatever the obstruction is out of your mouth.

       “Kerry!” someone shouts and the knowledge that there’s someone else in the room while you’re strapped down makes you that much more panicked.

       A young man with dirty-blonde hair rushes to your side and starts speaking softly but quickly to you. “Here, here,” he says, reaching forward and placing his fingers on the mask.

       You jerk your face away from him and continue to fight against your restraints when suddenly Geoff is standing above you and his hand his cool against the flushed skin of your face. Seeing him standing beside you makes you realize that you’re no longer trapped with Tinkerbell’s men-- that you hadn’t been dreaming, that they had _saved_ you. You don’t move this time when the blonde man carefully starts to pull the mask off your face. The feeling of the tube sliding out of your throat makes you gag again and as soon as it’s out you turn your head and cough wetly into your pillow. Once you can breathe properly you turn to face Geoff again and try to ask him what happened, where you are, if Ryan is okay, but your voice doesn’t come out.

       “Don’t try,” the tattooed man says gently. “You’ve been out for a week, we had to use the feeding tube to keep you alive.” As he talks he and Kerry unstrap your wrist and ankles. “We only strapped you down because Kerry didn’t want you to upset the equipment when you woke up.” His eyes are soft and sad when they meet yours. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

       You shake your head and carefully sit up. You can still feel some residual pain but most of it is dull now, you assume because they’re pumping you full of pain medication. You take a look at your body--the cuts Tinkerbell’s men created with scalpels and knives are stitched cleanly shut, your broken bones are held by casts, one of your arms is in a sling to hold your collarbone in place, your shin and head are wrapped in bandages, something is covering your entire back and you assume by the tightness you feel when you shift that the tears from the whip have been sown up as well, and varying sizes of gauze are taped over your burns. Almost all of your skin that isn’t wrapped up is covered in yellow and green bruises. You open your mouth to speak again but Geoff is quick to offer you a bottle of water; you have no way of holding it yourself right now so he carefully pours some into your mouth. You swallow what you can but the sensation of having water flowing down your throat without your control induces another panic attack and you slap the bottle out of his hands and away from you before you realize it. “ _S_ _orry_ ,” you speak in a voice that sounds totally foreign to your own ears.

       Geoff looks at you with no small degree of sadness (and some amount of pity) in his gaze. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “ _Fuck_ , (y/n), you don’t need to apologize, _I_ should be the one apologizing.” He traces delicate fingers over the bandage that rests under your still-swollen eye, over your broken cheekbone, and across the line of your bruised jaw. “We were looking for you the whole time, I fuckin’ swear, we just couldn’t find you and we left you with those _fucks_ for so long…”

       The use of his colorful language is so nostalgic that you feel happy tears roll down your cheeks. “ _It’s okay_ ,” you promise him. “ _You still found me._ ” You give him a weak smile then, hoping to leave the solemn moods in the past now (and hopefully for the rest of forever). “ _How bad do I look right now?_ ”

       “You look fuckin’ terrible,” he answers honestly. “But terrible is better than dead.”

       Hearing the word, remembering that you very well could have died in that place, makes your stomach feel uneasy. “ _I_ _s Ryan okay?_ ” you ask next.

       Geoff frowns a little bit, just a small downturn at the corner of his mouth for the briefest time but you still notice. “Yeah, he’s fine. We have a hard time keeping his ass in bed long enough to heal,” you hear Kerry give a huff of agreement and it makes you smile just a little, “but other than that he’s fine for a dude who got shot three times.” He frowns deeper then, one he doesn’t try to hide. “Do you want to see him?”

       You shake your head for the second time and ease back down against the hospital bed; you still aren’t sure where you are exactly, but it must be in some building that the Fakes own. Truthfully, you _do_ want to see Ryan, but you’re not ready to face the issues between you and the two men just yet. For now you want to try to relax for the first time in what feels like forever. You reach out, with fingers that are splinted and taped and impossible to move, and touch Geoff’s hand. You feel an overwhelming amount of gratitude and _love_ and it almost slips from your mouth but you stop yourself at the last moment. Instead you lift his hand towards your face as best you can and kiss each tattoo that decorates his fingers. “ _You saved me,_ ” you speak to him, but also to yourself because saying it makes it feel more real. You repeat it again and again, even as your tears patter to the back of Geoff’s hand. “ _You saved me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn son. This was a pretty long chapter for me. I hope it didn't feel too rushed.


	14. Leader of the Fakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an emotional roller-coaster starring our favorite tattooed gentleman.

       Geoff refuses to leave your side in the following days; he feeds you by hand, changes your bandages (when Kerry permits), and runs tender fingers over your healing knuckles when he asks if you’re okay or if you need anything. He even sleeps in a chair beside you at night despite your numerous protests. It’s so incredibly _sweet_ and such a contrast to the dark room and the beatings that you find yourself crying around him more often than you want to. Every time, without fail, he cradles your head and tells you that it’s okay and that he’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again. The first few times he tries to touch you are hesitant and gentle but you still involuntarily flinch away--he seems to understand but his eyes are still so sad and full of **guilt** when it happens. It takes you a few days but you're slowly getting used to the feeling of his fingers ghosting over your skin like he's afraid that you'll shatter if he presses any harder. It feels nice, to not be afraid of a touch for the first time in a long time.

       You never see anyone else aside from Kerry, who brings you food in the mornings and evenings, adjusts your medicine if you need it, and quickly checks on you to make sure you’re healing well before hastily leaving. You have a feeling that Geoff is the reason you haven’t seen anyone, that he’s telling the others to stay away, but you’re not sure _why_. You know he’s probably being protective, that after seeing you react in such a negative way to his touch he thinks you’re not ready to see the others yet, but you’re anxious to meet them and thank them for putting their lives on the line for you. You’ve been doing better recently, with Geoff’s touches and with Kerry opening the door (the first time he walked in you got so scared that you tried ripping the IV out of your arm and nearly fell off the bed), so you think you’ll be okay. At least for a short while.

       You also want to see Ryan with your own two eyes, to know for yourself that he’s okay, but you’d never admit that out loud. A small piece of your brain tell you that _that’s_ the real reason Geoff is being so protective. It’s been in the air since you woke up--an awkward, unspoken _thing_ between the two of you. You know he must want to talk to you about it, about Ryan, but you don’t think you’ll ever be ready to have that talk with him. It’s already hard enough as is, with the image of the Vagabond’s face plaguing your mind, with the knowledge that he revealed such a _vitally_ important piece of himself to you just to calm you down. You have no idea what it **means** that he did something so stupid for you since, the last you knew, he thought of you as nothing but a cheap thrill when he felt like it. You want to ask him, but there’s still a nagging piece of your brain that reminds you that you still need to slap the shit out of him for fucking up everything for you and Geoff. You won’t get to do either if Geoff never lets anyone into the room, though.

       Once a few more days pass and you’re feeling more yourself you decide you’re going to ask him.

       He beats you to the punch. “(y/n),” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands folded neatly beneath his chin. You see the exact moment when he goes from the Geoff you know to the leader of the Fakes; the lines of his face harden and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity you didn’t know he was capable of. “I need you to tell me everything you gave them on us.”

       You swallow thickly, not liking the way he assumes you gave up their information despite the fact that you _had_ ; you hope he knows because Ryan relayed the information to him, not because he thinks you’re weak. Your silence draws no reaction from him, no reassuring words or actions because he’s in _boss mode_ right now, so you take a deep breath before speaking. “I told them what I know,” you say vaguely. “I gave them your name, Gavin’s name, Ryan’s name, and Michael’s name.” They’re the only names you know, only because you’ve heard them said by the people of Los Santos in passing, but you still don’t know which face belongs to which name. Honestly, you’re starting to believe you’re a pretty shitty criminal. “I gave them the names of the territories you own around here and your address, but I think they already knew that because Tinkerbell had pictures.” You shudder at the memory and Geoff’s eye soften for half a second.

       “Anything else?” he asks.

       You shake your head. “I don’t know anything else about your crew. I only gave them--” Your eyes go wide and you sit straight up. “Geoff, I need a phone!” He hesitates until you give him a pleading look and then reluctantly offers you his cell-phone. You punch in Caiti’s number as fast as your fingers will let you. When she answers, with her standard greeting for new clientele, the sound of her voice is nearly enough to make you cry again. “Caiti, I’m so happy you’re safe.”

       “(y/n)?!” her voice is filled with relief. “Thank goodness you’re okay! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you since--”

       “Caiti, listen to me,” you say seriously. “Tinkerbell kidnapped me and I gave him your name.” You leave out the middle part because you don’t want to talk about it with her, not yet at least. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want to but I--” You take a deep breath in through your nose, trying to compose yourself again.

       “Oh, sweetie,” you hear her on the other end of the line. “Tell me you’re okay? Tell me that they didn’t hurt you.”

       “I’m okay,” you assure her. “But you may not be for long if you don’t hide out for a while.” Geoff mouths something to you and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. You return your attention to the call, “The Fake AH Crew is willing to hide you, at least until they can get their hands on Tinkerbell.”

       “The Fakes?” she repeats. “(y/n), what have you been up to in your spare time?”

       The small joke makes you smile--you can’t believe she’s reacting so calmly, but, then again, she works with a network of criminals so it’s highly possible she’s been in a similar situation before.

       “To be honest, Jack contacted me while they were searching for you and she's been watching over me this whole time. Tell Geoff thank you for the offer, though."

       You feel another wave of confusion but relay the message anyway. She tells you again how happy she is you're safe, promises she'll do what she can to help the Fakes take Tinkerbell down, and then she hangs up, leaving you speechless as you hand Geoff is phone back. “What just happened?” Judging by the sound of things Caiti was pretty tight with the Fakes--you had no idea, but, honestly, why would you know that? And why would the Fakes go to anyone but the best for their information? It all makes sense the more you think about it.

       “Jack never told me she was already hiding Caiti,” Geoff says conversationally, then shrugs. "Makes sense though."

       The name strikes you again, the same way it did the first time. “Jack?”

       “Yeah, you met her. She and Ryan were scoping out the party you went to all by yourself like some kind of fuckin’  _hotshot_.” It's like some kind of switch has been flipped in him now that you're talking about the party--he's very obviously annoyed now unlike moments ago.

       At least knowing they were at the party explains why the Fakes knew you were missing. “Look, I only went to that party because--”

       “Because you’re an idiot,” the tattooed man finishes for you vehemently, eyes narrowed. He then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back more heavily into his chair. “I don’t want to get into this, Ryan already called dibs on it.”

       You feel a surge of anger, and it’s almost nice, almost _refreshing_ to feel such an intense emotion other than fear again. “He called **dibs**? Fuck you, Geoff, fuck you _and_ your crew! Why would I want to talk to someone who let Tinkerbell drive away with me in his car?!” He pins you with a look that has you simultaneously shutting your mouth and wishing you had never opened it in the first place. You know that it isn’t fair to blame them after they just saved you from certain death, but now it just feels like the secrets are piling up again and the fact that Ryan was _there_ and didn’t do anything to stop it makes you see white despite knowing better--it feels like all the fear and anger you had built up in the nights in the dark room are finally starting to wiggle their way free from your subconscious.

       “My crew was there to gather intel,” Geoff speaks lowly. “You were unplanned, and Jack tried to warn you. Ryan couldn’t do anything without exposing his face to Tinkerbell. Was him getting shot three times not enough for you, or would you have preferred he jumped in at the party like a regular fuckin’ prince charming and get killed then and there?”

       It’s a low blow and you feel like it nearly knocks all the wind out of you. “No,” you say quietly.

       “I didn’t think so.” He sighs again and you’re sure he’s so exhausted, first saving you and then watching over you just to be dragged into another argument. “Did you really not know I was the leader of the Fakes?” he asks, much softer than before.

       The question catches you off guard. “Of course I didn’t,” you say. “And I would have told you as much that night if you would have let me instead of blowing your lid and calling Ryan.” It’s harsh, especially since he _did_ try to speak with you afterwards, but you knew you weren’t ready to have this conversation and here he is initiating it. “Did you _really_ not know I was Princess?” you spit.

       He deflates a bit, running his hand over his face exasperatedly. “How long have you and Ryan--”

       “ _Don’t_ ,” you stop him. It’s not a can of worms you want to get into while tensions are running so high between the two of you.

       It seems that Geoff also has quite a few pent up emotions he’s letting loose because the next words that leave his mouth are positively icy. “Why, has it been months? Years, maybe? I know you slept with that asshole the night I took you to that restaurant so you guys must be pretty close.”

       You flip the thin sheet off of yourself and twist so that your legs are dangling over the edge of the bed. You _can’t_ do this right now and you’re beginning to think it was a mistake to believe everything would go back to normal. You grab your IV with taped and splinted fingers and pull it from your arm before Geoff has time to stop you--it stings like a bitch, but it’s nothing compared to what you suffered before. You grip the cords attaching you to the EKG and rip them away, ignoring the flatline ring that the monitor emits as soon as you’re free.

       “What the hell are you doing?” he asks as you get to your feet and begin limping your way to the door.

       “You made a mistake bringing me here,” you say, doing your best to keep the sadness out of your voice. “I appreciate you saving me and taking care of me,” _(appreciate? You should be on your knees begging for forgiveness after what he and his crew did for you_ ) “but I need to go home now.” You try not to think about what going home means, knowing that _they'll_ be watching you, trying to hunt you down again, but **anything** is better than another argument with Geoff. You hear chair-legs scraping against the tiled floor and heavy footsteps approaching but you don’t stop hobbling towards the door. A hand wraps tightly around your wrist and tugs you backwards so hard that you turn and stumble forward; you collide with a solid chest and look up just in time for Geoff to lean down and catch your lips in a blazing kiss. You kiss him back ardently, fingers twitching as he grips your wrist even harder. When he pulls away he kisses his way down your neck, placing small licks and nips over the scar that Ryan left there, his beard tickling against your skin. He bites harder suddenly, causing a small, wanton noise to slip from your mouth.

       "I'm _not_ letting you out of my sight again," he all but growls against your neck, pulling you backwards along with him until he finds the edge of the bed. He sits down and tugs you with him so that you're straddling his thighs and rubs his hands across the exposed skins of your legs just hard enough for the bruises and cuts to tingle beneath the calluses on his palms. He kisses you again just as earnestly, groaning low in his throat when you prod questioningly at his lips with your tongue. He kisses you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he stops with smooth, sweet strokes of his tongue and lips until you can't breathe anymore. When you have to part for air he leans his forehead against your shoulder and takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for what I said, I just, do you have any idea how _stupid_ you are?” Before you can reply he wraps his arms around your waist, drags you closer, and bites you again just below the first mark on your neck. “Do you have any idea how fucking _scared_ I was?”

       Your eyes widen and you lift your hand to run your broken fingers through his hair soothingly. You hadn’t considered the idea that the emotion Geoff was feeling was **fear** for even a second, but it makes sense now--the protecting you, the frustration, all of it. You press a series of kisses to his temple and cheek, murmuring how sorry you are into his ear the entire time. You apologize for getting yourself kidnapped, for not thinking your plan through, for not listening to him when he wanted to talk, for everything with Ryan--you apologize for all of it until you feel like you’ve stripped yourself bare in front of him. You hold his face and place a kiss against his lips to reassure him. You feel such a strong wave of emotions towards the man in front of you, who has made you happy and taken care of you and now saved your life. “Geoff, you know I lo--”

       The door swings open and Kerry rushes in, but stops when he sees the position you and Geoff are in. “Oh, I just...I heard the EKG so I...is everything okay in here?” he stammers.

       Geoff doesn’t release his grip on you even as you flush with color after being caught in such a compromising position with the leader of the crew. “She’s fine, Kerry.” He smiles at you affectionately. “An idiot, but fine.”

       “Did she take out her own IV? Do you want me to reset it?”

       “I think she’s okay for now,” Geoff reassures. “We were just on our way to introduce her to the rest of the crew.”

       You smile wide when you hear that and nod happily at the blonde man. “I’m getting antsy just sitting here doing nothing.”

       “Yeah _that’s_ what it looks like,” Kerry mutters under his breath sarcastically, earning himself another blush from you and a sly smirk from Geoff.

       As soon as he leaves you ask, “Did you really mean it about meeting the crew?”

       “I don’t know,” he says playfully, still holding you close. “Did you mean what you were just about to say?” He giggles at the surprised look on your face but holds a finger to your lips when you try to answer him. “Don’t tell me now,” he says. “Tell me when you’re sure.”

       “I think I’m pretty sure.”

       “You’re not,” he says simply, carefully helping you off his lap but keeping a steadying hand on your arm once you're on your feet again. “I don’t expect you to figure it out right away,” he leans forward and kisses you sweetly again, “but I do hope you choose me cause I’m a fuckin’ delight.”

       You give him a sad smile, because you know he’s right and you hate the way he knows you better than you know yourself. You hate it because it’s _Geoff_ and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, but there’s still a shadow of a doubt lurking in the back of your mind that goes by the name of _Ryan_ and you haven’t been able to get him off your mind no matter how hard you try. You hate it, but at the same time you’re relieved that Geoff knows and that he’s still willing to hold you as close as he is. You’re relieved because _finally_ everything is laid out between the two of you and you no longer have to hide any part of yourself from him.

       He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, drawing you from your thoughts. “I was serious about what I said though. The morons have been dying to meet you."

       "Is that because they know they're leader is whipped?" you ask, cracking an invisible whip into his face teasingly.

       He laughs loudly and rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah." He stands and wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I think they'll understand once they meet you."

       You feel your heart swell and you can only hope that your smile conveys the feelings he won't let you express with words. 

       He returns your smile. "I hope you're ready to meet the biggest assholes in Los Santos."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update wasn't as quick as some of my others but I've got a massive research paper to write that's taking up a lot of my time. I hope you all love this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	15. The Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally meet the rest of the Fake AH Crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some time to go back and edit any mistakes in the previous chapters. Mostly just small spelling errors, but I think I've fixed most of them now. Sorry about that!

       Geoff, Ryan, Jack, Michael, Gavin, and Ray. You finally know the names of the infamous Fake AH Crew, and you have faces to go along with them. They’re nothing like what you expect, not with how renown they are and with someone like Ryan on the team--they act more like a rowdy bunch of kids than notorious criminals. Jack smiles wide as soon as you and Geoff walk through the door into what looks like a really nice apartment suite. Geoff keeps a sturdy arm around your waist, refusing to let you go even as the woman approaches, but you’re thankful for the extra support because your leg still aches if you put weight on it. Jack hugs you as gently as she possibly can (you don’t flinch because it’s a friend, you remind yourself, a _friend_ , and she won’t hurt you) and apologizes profusely for not being able to help at the party, but also scolds you in a motherly fashion for not heeding her warning in a way that makes you laugh more than it makes you feel guilty. She and Geoff help you sit down and get into a comfortable position, and then the lads are surrounding you. They bombard you with questions about your name, about your criminal record, (if you _blaze?_ Did you hear that right?), about _way_ more topics than you can keep up with and you immediately start to laugh more.

       “You’re like vultures,” Jack chastises, shooing them away from you. “She just went through hell, she doesn’t need all of you sitting on top of her right now.”

       “Oh, but she’ll let Ryan sit on her?” Ray asks in a barely-audible mutter.

       Geoff and Jack send him a disapproving look at the same moment, looking exactly like the parents of the rowdy bunch of kids.

       “What?” Ray shrugs. “Ryan was my boyfriend first.” His humor is so dry that you’re almost inclined to believe him, and you might have if not for Gavin and Michael laughing and poking fun at him.

       You blush and cough awkwardly, eyeing Ryan where he sits in the corner of the room. He’s further away from you than anyone and has his arms crossed over his chest, mask in place despite the fact that he showed you his face while rescuing you--he’s probably wearing it because he hasn’t told the others that little fact. He doesn’t even offer you a glance and, now that you think about it, he hasn’t moved at all since Geoff walked you into the room.

       When he notices that your gaze lingers on him longer than necessary he tilts his head towards you. “I think she’d much rather have _someone else_ on her lap,” he says pointedly. He’s rewarded with a series of low “ _oohs_ ” and “ _ahhs_ ” from the lads and a sharp turn of the head from Geoff. The two men say nothing as they stare one another down, almost challengingly.

       “Holy _shit_ ,” Michael says on a giggle. “It’s so _tense_.”

       “I remember the last time Geoff and Ryan fought over me,” Ray sighs wistfully.

       You clear your throat but you’re not sure how to diffuse the situation at all. Honestly you’re so surprised Ryan said something so obviously bitter and steeped in jealousy that you’re at a loss for words. You flounder for a moment, opening and closing your mouth a few times looking for something to say, but Jack, bless her soul, takes the heat off you.

       “You two are just as bad as them. I’m starting to think that maybe it was too soon to introduce her to you idiots,” she admonishes. The room immediately erupts into a cacophony of shouted disagreements and childish insults; Gavin makes unintelligible squawking noises and Michael is quick to sarcastically imitate him which only leads to sad wails of “ _Micoo, no!_ ”, Ray mocks Jack and she mocks him back and Ray replies with a laugh that’s so ingenuine and caustic that it makes nearly everyone break into actual laughter.

       You feel your heart begin to swell--it feels so _normal_ to just sit and listen to a bantering group of friends. You got so used to feeling fear after hearing shouting, after hearing voices in general, but you don’t feel any fear as you watch the crew. It feels more nostalgic than anything, and it just serves as another reminder that you don’t have any reason to be afraid anymore.

       Geoff leans his forward and presses his fingers deep into his eyes. “It’s such a fuckin’ mystery that we’ve survived this long.” He turns his head just enough to cast you an apologetic glance. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanna leave,” he whispers.

       “Actually,” you say once you finally manage to find your voice. “It’s nice. It’s finally...normal, after everything.” Your words seem to sober the mood in the room, and you’re surprised when you look around and find six pairs of eye staring intently at you.

       “How many of them were there?” Michael asks.

       You inhale deeply; you knew they would have questions. Geoff reaches across to place a reassuring hand on your knee and nods at you, so you give him a nod back. “I only ever saw Tinkerbell and two other men,” you respond. “They’re the ones that--that tortured me. I saw their faces but I never heard their names, and I know that Ryan, um, took care of one of them.”

       “That’s a fuckin’ understatement,” Michael snorts. “That dude was barely recognizable as a human.”

       “I heard patrols go by sometimes,” you offer instead of dwelling on the memory of watching a man get flayed alive. “So there must have been more people there than just the three I saw.”

       “There were probably ten or eleven when we got there,” Ray says. “Might have been more but they ran away ‘cause they’re pussies.”

       “They probably didn’t want to be there,” Jack reasons aloud. “I mean, aside from the two that…” She eyes you sadly for a moment before continuing. “Tinkerbell is notorious for recruiting workers by force, so they probably got out when they saw the opportunity.”

       “Still pussies.”

       “How did he know it was you at the party?” Ryan questions suddenly. “You’re better about keeping your identity hidden than most of us, but he still knew who you were.”

       You look up and catch a glimpse of that same icy anger in his eyes as you saw when he rescued you and you just know he’s already planning all the ways he’ll make everyone who hurt you suffer. Seeing the look, knowing he’s angry because they hurt you despite the fact that he’s acting so cold, makes your heart flutter in your chest. “I was contacted by a man who calls himself Cobra,” you say, gaze not straying from his. “He’s a minor criminal. He told me he wanted Tinkerbell taken care of, but they set me up. Tinkerbell knew I would be going after him, and I walked right into their trap.” You feel a little squeeze on your leg and you finally rip your eyes away from the masked man so that you can give Geoff a small smile in return.

       “Why would a big-league like Tinkerbell work with a petty criminal like that?” Jack asks. It’s not a question directed at you but more for the room to ponder over.

       “No one would suspect they’d be working together,” Geoff answers. “Smart if you’re into fucked up shit like that.”

       “They told me I stole from them and that I killed some of their men, but they knew about my--my _affiliations_ with your crew, and they wanted what I had on all of you more than they wanted anything else,” you say. “I have a feeling Tinkerbell wants anyone who could pose a threat to his business out of Los Santos and that he’s working with Cobra to make it happen. The Fakes are probably close to the top of his list of potential threats.”

       “That fucker should’ve come looking for us if we’re the ones he’s got a problem with,” Michael growls, clenching his fists. “I’ll make sure to tell him that when we find his sorry ass.”

       “There won’t be anything left of him for you to talk to by the time I’m through with him,” Ryan says darkly. “Speaking of which,” he stands abruptly, “the more time we spend sitting around the further away he runs. If this little _meeting_ is over, I’ve got better things to do.”

       You want to reach out for him as he leaves, but you instead stay completely still and keep your expression neutral even as the door slams shut behind him. It’s obvious that he wants nothing to do with you right now--you doubt you’d even be able to get a full apology out, or even a thank you, without it turning into an argument. The room is quiet for a long moment and as you sit there you begin to feel _gross_ ; Kerry had washed the dirt and blood off of your skin with a washcloth but you can’t remember when you last had a proper shower. Now you’re sitting unwashed, with disgustingly tangled hair and nails that are too long, in nothing but a hospital-gown, in front of the group that saved you. You brush Geoff’s forearm with your fingertips. “Do you think I could borrow a shower? And maybe some clothes?”

       “Yeah she does kinda stink,” Ray agrees, quickly lightening the mood again.

       “You can’t just say that to the bird’s face!” Gavin points out.

       “Yeah dude, that’s pretty fucked up,” Michael snickers.

       Geoff rolls his eyes at the three and helps you to your feet. “You don’t smell _that_ bad,” he assures you in a way that makes you laugh loudly.

       “Oh, (y/n)!” Jack stands and approaches you while reaching into the pocket of her off-season Christmas cardigan. “Take this,” she says, handing you a brand-new cell-phone. “It has all of our numbers in it already. If you ever need a break from you-know-who just give me a call.”

       “Gee, thanks, Jack,” Geoff mutters.

       She winks at you. “I'll try to find something in my wardrobe that'll fit you for the time being. Anythings better than a hospital gown, right?”

       You smile brightly at her and stuff the phone into one of Geoff’s pockets for the time being--you’re starting to think that her kindness is limitless and you look forward to, hopefully, spending more time with her in the future. “Thank you, Jack. I'll honestly take anything that isn't _this_ at this point,” you reply, plucking at the scratchy fabric. You then wave to the lads, who have taken up a conversation of their own. “It was nice meeting all of you,” you say as Geoff helps you hobble out the door.

       You hear Ray’s voice call to you just before the door swings shut, “Make good choices!”

       “Was that directed at me or you?” you laugh.

       “Knowing him, both of us,” Geoff says. He eyes you carefully, “I hope they weren’t too much for you.”

       You know he’s concerned because it’s the first time you’ve been around a group of people since being rescued, but you honestly feel fine--well, the pain-meds are starting to wear off, but otherwise you’re A-okay. “You worry too much.”

       “Can you blame me?” He helps you down the hall into an apartment that looks exactly like the one you just left.

       “Couldn’t use the shower in the other room?” you ask teasingly.

       “We use that one for meetings and shit like that,” he explains, “so there’s no soap or shampoo or anything in the bathroom. This is the room I use here.”

       Despite the fact that you’ve been to his actual apartment so many times you still find yourself blushing at that knowledge--you have a feeling its because you thought you would never get the chance to see anything like this, or to be so close to Geoff, ever again. He walks you to the bathroom and leans you against the counter, letting you go as he moves to turn on the hot water. You flinch at the noise of water hitting the tile, your stomach tightening uncomfortably. You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel fingers brush against your still-swollen cheekbone.

       “Will you be okay?”

       “Yeah,” you nod.

       “I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he promises as he turns to leave.

       “Um, Geoff?” Your voice comes out as nothing more than a squeak and you feel your ears burning with embarrassment for what you’re about to ask. “I--I can’t really…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t think I can get my clothes off.” You wish you were lying but you have one arm in a sling and the fingers on your other hand are healing but broken all the same.

       He clears his throat and his voice cracks a few times when he next speaks. “Yeah, I think I can help you with that.”

       You turn your back to him in an attempt to preserve some modesty. You feel his shaking fingers carefully slip the strap of your sling over your head, and you hold your arm to your chest to prevent your collarbone from shifting as he pulls it away from you. His fingertips brush against your exposed skin as he pulls at the ties that hold the back of your hospital-gown together, and then he’s delicately pushing it off your shoulders and you extend your arm just enough for him to pull it off completely before bringing it back against your chest. You’re not wearing a bra, they removed it so that it wouldn’t irritate the stitches on your back, but you grimace when you see the dirty panties you’ve been wearing under the gown--the same pair you’ve been wearing since the dinner party.

       “I’m going to take the bandages off,” Geoff says in a whisper.

       The feeling of tape being peeled away from your skin stings a bit, but the cool air feels good against your blistered burns. He removes every bandage carefully, moving from your shoulders down to your legs and across your arms until the only ones that remain are those that he can’t see with your back facing him. You try to peel the bandages on your stomach off while he’s working on removing them from your legs but they’re held down with strong tape and the splints on your fingers do little against them so you build up all your nerves, cover your chest as best you can with your arms, and turn to face him without meeting his eyes. He begins peeling the remaining bandages off your chest and stomach and you notice that his fingers linger just a little longer against your skin now. When he reaches your hips and legs you’re almost positive that he’s doing it on purpose, brushing his knuckles across your hip-bones and down the length of your thighs. You catch a glimpse of a little smirk on his mouth and it makes your blush burn that much hotter. Once you’re completely bandage-free you turn your back to him again shyly.

       “Hold on just a sec, I’ll be right back,” he says suddenly.

       You stand awkwardly, mostly naked, in the middle of the bathroom for a few moments and try to ignore the way the sound of the shower makes your palms sweat.

       Geoff steps back into the bathroom in record time. He lifts your arm and places a plastic bag over your hand, then places a rubber-band around it so that it stays in place. “You can’t take off the splints and you’re not supposed to get them wet,” he explains.

       You nod, not trusting your voice--you’re afraid that if you speak he’ll know how nervous you are. You startle when you feel his hands on your hips and his thumbs slip under the elastic of  your last remaining article of clothing.

       “Like I said, I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he speaks into your ear, then presses a kiss to your shoulder.

       You feel him tug down your panties but before you have any time to feel totally exposed you hear the door clicking shut behind you. You smile at how gentlemanly he’s acting, even though your hips still tingle where his touch strayed against your skin. The pleasant feeling vanishes as soon as you turn to face the shower. You take a deep breath and limp closer to it, pushing the curtain aside and carefully stepping inside, just out of range of the stream. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit before you step close enough that the water hits your leg. It’s warm and it feels so good that you quickly step closer, smiling and even laughing to yourself as you feel the warmth encompass your body. You have no idea how you’re going to clean your body or your hair but you can’t find it in yourself to _care_ as you relish in the feel of the warm water against your skin for the first time in ages.

       You stand there for a long time, feeling warm and content, running your plastic-covered hand across your healing skin slowly. You think about what you’re going to do, how you’re going to have to find a new apartment, but it doesn’t make you panic like you thought it would because you know that the Fakes will be watching your back from now on--in fact, you start thinking about what new furniture to buy once your wounds are healed. You’re right in the middle of thinking about a nice, new, king-sized mattress when you tip your head back into the stream for the first time. It’s a subconscious action that seems totally natural until you feel the water against your forehead, running down your face and into your eyes.

       You remember the feel of the cloth against your face and the burning in your lungs, you remember hunching over and throwing up everything in your stomach, and you remember how it felt to believe you were going to die. You remember the fear and the beatings and you know that you need to get away, you need to run away, now, _now_ , or else they’ll throw you back into that **room**. In your haste to get away from the streaming water you slip and land hard on your tailbone in the bathtub. You cry out and curl into a ball--the only defense mechanism you had in the dark room.

       The door slams open and the shower-curtain is thrown wide. You feel sinewy arms lifting you to your feet and your first instinct is to kick and scream, so you _do_. You lean against the shower wall and swing wildly until the figure steps into the shower along side you and pins your swinging arm to the tile wall with a tight grip. Your eyes snap open when you feel a callused hand caress the side of your face and you see Geoff’s worried gaze and begin to realize what had happened. You feel weak and childish, but the memory is still fresh and now it’s sitting in the back of your mind so you wrap an arm around his neck, drag him closer, and curl your body into his until you can hide your face in his neck and block out the rest of the world.

       He doesn’t hesitate to lift you up into his arms and hold you close. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” The shower-curtain rustles as he steps out of the bathtub, leaving the bathroom without bothering to turn the shower off. He carries you to a bedroom and sits down on the plush comforter and silk sheets, uncaring that you’re both soaking wet, with you in his lap. He cards his fingers through your still-tangled hair, gently combing through some of the knots as he whispers soothing words into your ear.

       The more the fear fades away the more its replaced with a flurry of different emotions. Geoff’s arms are tight around your body (he’s so _warm_ ), and you can feel that his clothes are soaked-through with the water and clinging to his skin. Your heart starts beating quickly for an entirely new reason when you realize that you’re still naked--because of course you are, you were just having a panic-attack in the shower and Geoff was trying to get you away from what caused it first and foremost not preserve the minuscule amount of modesty you have left-- and when you feel the pace of his heart under your palm. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I thought I’d be okay.”

       He hugs you tighter to his frame. “It’s not your fault,” he says against your neck. “I can only fuckin’ imagine how scared you were.”

       You _were_ scared; you’ve been feeling the emotion so often recently that you’re actually starting to get used to it. As silly as you feel for having a panic-attack while trying to do something as simple as take a shower, it doesn’t make the memories of nearly drowning any less real for you. You stay curled against him until you finally calm down (as much as you can while he holds your naked body in his arms)--you shouldn’t be scared, you tell yourself, you’re _not_ scared because he’s there and he won’t let anything hurt you. You’re not scared because you’re with him and not with the goons and the water you thought was trying to drown you before was nothing more than a _shower_. You give his shoulder as much of a squeeze as you can. “I’m not scared anymore,” you say. “You make me feel safe.”

       He presses a long kiss to your temple. “I’m going to go get some towels and fresh gauze to dress your wounds,” he says, carefully sliding you off his lap.

       You sit at the edge of the massive bed, enjoying the way the materials feel against your bare skin, and watch the way Geoff’s dark shirt clings to the dips in his back as he walks towards the door. You’re overcome with the need to feel him against you again, to have his comforting touch against your body, to feel his fingertips brush your skin and not be overcome with fear but with _desire_. With a surge of what you’ll later call confidence you stand and limp your way across the room until you can wrap your arm around his waist. You press your forehead between his shoulder-blades and feel the way his muscles tense when you slip plastic-covered fingers under the edge of his shirt and glide them across his stomach. You wish you could actually feel his skin, but the pleasant shiver that you feel roll through his body is good enough for now.

       “Um, what are you doing?” he asks with a voice pitched with nervousness.

       “I'm touching you.”

       You can hear him swallow. “I can see that. But remind me, why are you touching me?”

        _Because you make me feel safe, because your touch makes me forget what their hands felt like, because you make me happy, because..._ “Because I want to. Maybe I'm just trying to repay you for helping me undress earlier,” you answer smoothly. “Unfortunately I don’t think I can do this by myself either.”

       “I don’t know if we should--”

       You slide your hand over the curve of his hip, similar to the way he’d done to you while removing your bandages. You don’t take your hand away from his body as you move around to stand in front of him, and you don’t give him a chance to say anything before you lean into him and press your lips to his.

       He kisses you back tentatively, hands remaining stiffly at his sides.

       You just barely pull away, so that your lips still brush his when you speak. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

       A small noise leaves his throat before he wraps his arms around you and gives you one of _those_ kisses--like the one he gave you in the infirmary when you were trying to leave, one that makes you light-headed and makes your world spin. A kiss like he’s afraid you’ll disappear soon if he doesn’t hold you as close to himself as possible. His hands clutch at your exposed skin, but he’s also careful not hurt any of the cuts and burns that mar your flesh. He maneuvers backwards awkwardly, dragging you along with him and stumbling a few times here and there, causing laughter to spark up between the two of you before it’s drowned out by another meeting of your mouths. He falls back onto the bed suddenly, clutching two generous handfuls of your ass to pull you down with him.

       You laugh breathlessly when you both bounce upon impact with the mattress, then sit back so that you can take a good look at him. Your legs straddle his thighs and you have to lean a bit so that you’re not putting too much pressure on your bad knee. His hair is wilder than normal and his eyes are bright and the contrast of your naked skin to his dark clothes is erotic in a way that makes you shiver delightedly. You rip the plastic bag from your hand and tickle your splinted fingers along the line of his stomach that’s left exposed as his shirt rides up. When your fingers curiously roam higher he responds by giving you a positively devious smile and pushing his hips up into yours. His jeans are rough against your sensitive skin and you gasp and fall forward. “Asshole,” you pant against his neck.

       He only hums in response, leaning forward to nip at your neck. His hands find your hips and he presses you down against himself while he continues grinding little circles into you.

       “ _Geoff_ ,” you gasp his name because its all you can think to do. You can’t tell if its because your body is so weak or if he’s just a lot stronger than you thought, but you can’t pull away from him even as the stimulation starts to become too much. You tug fruitlessly against the fabric of his shirt and you hear him chuckle into your ear.

       He sits up suddenly and gently moves you until you’re lying on your back on the bed. His eyes rake appreciatively over your form despite the bruises, cuts, and burns, and you find yourself blushing and shyly looking away until he tugs his shirt over his head. You hear it hit the ground with a wet smack and all your nerves vanish as you start laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. After all, who would have thought you would be sharing a moment like this after a panic attack?

       As soon as he’s kneeling over you, within arms reach again, you smile and tug him down into another kiss.

       His forearms cage your head and he slowly lowers his body over yours, both of you moaning in tandem as naked skin touches naked skin. His hips slot against yours and you have to turn your head to draw in a large breath of air. One of his hands trails down the length of your neck, across the swell of your breast and the line of your ribs, over the ridge of your hip until he hooks his fingers behind your good knee and draws it up over his hip. “Is this okay?” he mutters as he places gentle kisses behind your ear. “You have to let me know if anything hurts.”

       Your mind is so wrapped up in the moment that you’ve forgotten all about the marks that litter your body; you don’t think you can recognize anything other than _want, need, desire_ right now, but you nod for him all the same before leaning up and slipping your tongue back between his lips.

       He groans and his hips twitch against yours. “Kerry is gonna fuckin’ kill me if he ever finds out we did this while you still have a fucked up collarbone,” he laughs.

       “A lot more is fucked up than just my collarbone, Geoff,” you remind him tauntingly.

       “Yeah, don't remind me,” he says. He reaches across to the nightstand and you hear the unmistakable sound of a condom wrapper crinkling.

       Your cheeks blossom with heat like you’ve never seen one before when he throws it down next to your head and he picks up on it almost too quickly.

       “Really?” he asks. “You’re getting embarrassed _now?_ ” To emphasize his point he angles his hips so that you can feel the warmth of his cock brush your inner thigh.

       Before you have any time to think of a comeback you feel a cool finger slide against the warmth between your legs, circling teasingly around your swollen clit. Your back arches and for the first time you feel the protesting sting of the stitches on your shoulders but you don’t care because it feels so fucking _good_. Your breath leaves you in a rush when you feel one finger push inside of you slowly and Geoff makes a low sound in the back of his throat. You cant your hips upward towards his hand in search for more and he chuckles and obliges you when he slowly pushes in a second beside the first. He slides his fingers knuckle-deep and crooks them _just so_ and a high-pitched whine erupts from your mouth. He keeps his pace torturously slow, biting down against your neck and shoulders to stifle his own groans; you can’t remember the last time you were treated so gently in bed, or the last time you felt so desperate for more. He brings you to the edge over and over again, but he never lets you tip over that precipice and it’s driving you mad.

       You whine again at the loss of sensation when his fingers finally leave you, but then you feel a foil edge being pressed against your mouth and you look up at him with lidded eyes as you tear into the condom wrapper with your teeth. He groans at the sight and takes only a quick moment to roll it on before his lips find yours. He brushes the head of his cock against your dampened folds for just a second more of teasing before he’s pushing inside. Your head lolls back and his drops forward so that his forehead is pressed to your shoulder.

       “Christ, I’m old,” he says after a moment, then laughs so hard that his entire body shakes.

       “What?” you ask between laughter and labored breaths. “Can’t last?”

       He thrusts languidly, eyeing the way you bite your lower lip with delight. “I don't see you complaining,” he replies. His expression softens then, “You’re still not hurting, right?”

       “Geoff,” you nearly sob. Pain is so far from what you're worried about right now that you can't believe he's asking you about it. “ _Please_.”

       He leans back enough to press a chaste kiss to your lips. “Please what?”

 _He’s the devil_ , you think, you thought he was a gentleman but he’s actually the devil. You roll your hips into his impatiently but it still isn’t enough. “Please?” you try again. He must get the point, or at least decide to take pity on you, because he starts a slow, steady rhythm with his hips that leaves you breathless. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, lean up as best you can so that you can suck marks into his skin, and giggle when his beard tickles across your cheeks.

       He giggles with you but both sounds morph into pleasured moans when he pushes his hips a little harder.

       You wrap your legs around his waist when you feel yourself nearing that edge again--the action causes pain to shoot from your knee into the rest of your leg but its dull compared to the feeling of Geoff’s body slick with sweat against yours. He whispers your name like a mantra and his fingers slide between you to brush feather-light over one of your hardened nipples and you feel the last thread snap. Your back arches high, your chest presses tight against his, and you cry out his name without any regard for how loud you’re being.

       A guttural sound leaves him when your body clenches around his length, and it only takes the feeling of your hand slipping around his back to rest against his ass for him to tumble over the edge along with you. He catches himself before he collapses on top of you and rolls onto his back. He presses a hand against his chest, right over his heart, and breaths your name on a sigh. “Holy shit,” he says.

       You nod in agreement but realize he doesn’t see it so you roll onto your side and rest your chin on his chest. “Ray’s gonna know we were making bad choices.”

       Geoff laughs that loud, boyish laugh you love so much and raises a hand to rustle your hair playfully. “He can eat a dick. So can Kerry.” He smiles and slides his hand across your shoulder and back contentedly until you wince. He’s quick to pull his hand away, and quicker to notice the blood that dots his fingers. He sits up, eyes the spots of blood that now stain the bed-sheets, and then forcibly turns you onto your stomach when you try telling him you’re fine.

       You know that some of your stitches have torn because you can feel the pain now, and you also know that your knee isn’t going to be happy with you in the morning. You still don’t care, but Geoff seems to as he takes in the sight of the blood on your back.

       “Fuck,” he curses. “I told you we shouldn’t have--”

       You sit up and press your palm to his cheek, determined not to let this ruin the moment. “Geoff, I’m fine, I promise,” you assure him. You press a kiss to his lips and wiggle your eyebrows at him, “You’re just going to have to hide the evidence before Kerry finds out.”

       He grins at you despite himself. “ _Fine_ ,” he drawls. “I guess if I _have_ to.”

       “I’d be perfectly content with laying here and bleeding all over you and your bed for the rest of the night.”

       “Smart ass.” He kisses your cheek and then your forehead. “I’ve gotta go get some gauze and shit, for _real_ this time, then you can lay with me for the rest of the night minus the bleeding part.”

       Your heart-rate quickens--despite all the nights you’ve spent together you’ve never shared a bed because Geoff always insisted on sleeping on the couch. “Yeah,” you agree with a wide smile. “That sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 14 glorious pages in a word document (almost a total of 90, wow!!), which I'm pretty sure is my longest chapter yet. Hope you all loved this Geoff moment, and I hope I did him justice.
> 
> Next chapter will be heavily Ryan-focused!


	16. Possessive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan is a little more crazy than you originally thought.

       You stand in front of the door with your fist raised to knock, trying to build up the nerves to do exactly that. You had spent the night in Geoff’s bed, wrapped in his arms while you listened to stories of his favorite heist successes and blunders. He had re-bandaged all your wounds, combed out your hair, and allowed you to use his toothpaste and his deodorant. You finally felt clean and you were so comfortable laying against his chest and it was a perfect night right up until he told you that you needed to have a talk with Ryan. You were surprised to hear the suggestion from him but you quickly realized that boss-mode was on when he told you that he couldn’t let the dynamic between the two of you affect Ryan’s behavior on the job.

       So here you stand, smelling like Geoff, wearing Geoff’s overly-large t-shirt (Jack must not have been able to find anything that would fit you, or maybe she did and Geoff just hid them so that you’d wear his shirt--you’re kind of betting on the latter), in front of the door to Ryan’s room. You just barely tap your knuckles against the wood and the door swings wide like he’s been expecting you. You’re not surprised to see that he’s wearing his mask.

       “Can I help you?” he asks in a way that’s a little _too_ polite.

       You see his eyes skim over you and land on your neck where Geoff’s teeth and tongue created a purple and red patch on your skin; you picture the sneer he probably has on his face. “I just want to talk,” you answer after a moment. You don’t, not really, not _now_ , you wanted to yesterday but that was before he was an absolute ass to you in front of everyone. You shift your weight from one leg to the other and realize that your knee is throbbing and you want desperately to sit down but you try not to show it.

       “I assume that you mean _Geoff_ would like us to talk, but fine, yeah,” he nods eventually--you still hate the way he can see through you so easily. “There’s a few things I want to talk to you about too.”

       There’s something about his tone that makes nervousness settle like a rock in your stomach. He steps aside to let you in (you’re glad--you were starting to think he was going to make you stand in the hallway the whole time) and you do your best not to limp as you move past him. You must do a terrible job because he hums knowingly low in his throat. You make a beeline toward his couch but just as you’re about to sit down he stops you.

       “Ah,” he says, eyes glinting behind the mask as you freeze in your spot. “Etiquette dictates that I allow you in, but I never said that you should make yourself comfortable.”

       You grind your teeth together and stand straight. “ _Okay_ ,” you say pointedly. “Then you better make this brief.”

       Ryan’s eyes go completely flat, lacking any semblance of emotion at all. “I’m sorry, do you have better things to do?” he asks with a humorless laugh. “Y’know, I think I’d like to hear a thank you before we get into the good stuff.”

       “I would have thanked you yesterday had you not had _better things to do_ ,” you throw his own words back into his face mockingly.

       He laughs a real, bitter laugh that causes chills to race along your arms. “Do you honestly expect an apology when I’m trying to save your ass _again?_ ” He takes a step forward that has you instinctively taking a step back, like an animal caged, and he seems pleased with your response because his eyes crinkle smugly and he stops moving again. “I don’t _have_ to hunt Tinkerbell down, I’m choosing to. Don’t forget that.”

       You should just thank him, get it over with and hopefully move on--it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it after what he went through to rescue you. In fact, he’s right, he doesn’t have to do anything **more** for you than what he already has, but you don’t thank him because he always has something to say that presses all the wrong buttons in your body. “Just like you didn’t _have_ to do anything at the party when he drove away with me, right?” It’s irrational and unreasonable, but there’s still a _stupid_ part of your brain that holds onto the resentment that he was there and he didn’t do anything.  

       You have no idea how he moves so fast but he’s suddenly in front of you and his long fingers are snug around your throat and he all but lifts you off the ground with the pressure he exerts over your windpipe. Panic spreads through your body like wildfire but you train your eyes on his mask and it anchors you to reality. You expect to see that crazed look in his eyes but he’s still calm, void of emotion. “You are not my responsibility,” he speaks evenly, punctuating every word with an excruciating squeeze of his hand, “you have made that _perfectly_ clear. The fact that you would ever even _think_ to go after him alone just because you were upset speaks volumes about how inexperienced, childish, and _stupid_ you are.”

       You can feel tears begin to prickle in the corners of your eyes--you’re not sure if they’re from fear, anger, sadness, or some horrible combination of all three. Of course he’s right, he’s right about everything. But you’re one prideful son-of-a-bitch. “I get it, you were more interested in protecting yourself. Geoff told me you were only there to get intel, so why risk yourself for a stupid girl? Why bother helping me at all if that’s all I am to you, Ryan?” You raise your hand and squeeze your broken fingers around his wrist despite the pain in causes--actually, you kind of enjoy it, because you deserve it for the absolute bullshit that’s spewing out of your mouth. “Why not leave me to die?” You feel the fingers loosen around your throat and then he drops you in a heap on the couch. You gasp in a breath and then cough into your arm.

       He slams his hands against the back of the couch on either side of your head, boxing you in, and then leans so close to you that your nose brushes against the mask he wears. You pushed him too far, you know as soon as you see the look in his eyes--wild, depraved, a man with loose morals and no inhibitions just like the rumors say. “What makes you think I didn’t just want you for myself?” he asks in that same sing-song sort of way that you heard before he flayed goon one. He leans closer, the leather of his couch creaking in protest as his fingers grip it tighter. He leans in until his mask is nuzzling your neck right over the scar from the knife he made you cut yourself with all those nights ago. “I could do things to you Tinkerbell could never _dream_ of.”

       You feel a very real, very present spike of fear now that you can no longer see the mask clearly. “Ryan,” you say shakily, placing your hand gently on his shoulder to try to push him away. He’s like an unmoving wall of solid muscle in front of you so you push more insistently, feeling the panic pooling in your veins as your mind begins to conjure up images of the dark room. “Please,” you say quietly.

       He inhales deeply, lifting a hand from the couch to tickle his fingertips across your cheek and chuckling when you flinch away. “I love it when they beg,” he mutters lowly. He grabs your jaw and leans back to look into your eyes. “Did you beg them to stop while they were torturing you?” His eyes flick momentarily to the tears that begin to slide down your cheeks. He squeezes your face tighter. “Did you?” he demands.

       “This isn’t funny,” you say--you want it to sound angry but your voice just reminds you of the way you sounded while you were kidnapped. “This isn’t a joke to me.” When he still doesn’t budge you close your eyes, feel the tears slip across the ridge of your jaw and down your neck. “ _Please_ Ryan, this isn’t fucking funny.”

       He hums, “Just like that, that _desperation_ , that’s what I love the most.” You feel his finger follow the length of your jugular vein. “Maybe he wasn’t kidding about your scream.”

       Your throat goes dry. He wouldn’t, would he?

       “Tell me,” his finger lingers over the hickies and bite-marks on your neck, “did you beg like that for Geoff?”

       You don’t know what to do, what he wants--how to stop the memories of Tinkerbell and the goons and the dark room from coming back--so you do the only thing you can think to. “I’m sorry, okay?!” you cry. “I was wrong, I should never have gone to that party alone and I don’t blame you for not wanting to give yourself up and, and--” The tears are flowing freely now and the words won’t stop. “Thank you for saving me, thank you for rescuing me when you had no reason to, thank you for--”

       He lifts the bottom of his mask and you jump when you feel his tongue catch the tears on your neck and follow the trail up to your cheek. “Do you want to know why I saved you?” he asks. “Why I’m _angry?_ Why I’m going to hunt that _son-of-a-bitch_ down and tear him limb from limb?” He bites your neck right over the marks Geoff left, hard enough that you feel blood gush around his teeth.

       You cry out and try to shove him away but he’s too strong.

       “It’s because you’re mine,” he says, almost tenderly, and then places a kiss just above the bite. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this, or hear you beg, or hurt you. _Me_.” When he pulls away from you he stands straight and you see the blood on his lips and teeth as he grins down at you.

       You stare blankly, disbelieving, at him for a long time before everything catches up with you and you hide your face in your hand and sob uncontrollably. You feel such a mix of emotions--anger, sadness, a predominate surge of _confusion_. You know that you went too far, that you should have just thanked him sooner, but feeding into the reminders of your kidnapping? That was just downright cruel. And then he says he’s going after Tinkerbell for you? Because you’re _his?_ You have no idea what to think anymore; you never should have come to his room. You’re a wreck by the time you hear him move, your eyes red and puffy, your throat raw from sobbing.

       “Fuck,” he says, exasperated (remorseful?). “(y/n).”

       He steps forward and you curl yourself into a ball on the couch, trying to stay as far from him as you can in the confined space of the room.

       “You should leave,” he speaks after a long moment. “Go rest.”

       Your head snaps up, fear evaporating into a rage so hot it’s almost tangible. You stand and you _don’t_ limp as you close the space between the two of you and slap him across his mask-clad face. “That’s it?” It’s your turn to laugh mirthlessly. “All you wanted was to call me names and scare the shit out of me?” You slap him again, harder this time. “Is that what you ‘called dibs’ on?” You move to slap him again but he grabs your wrist before you can and you’re powerless against the strength of his hold. “Do you feel better now?!” you shout anyway, struggling uselessly to remove yourself from his grasp. “Or do you still want me to scream for you?!”

       That hint of emotion (remorse) he’d shown briefly vanishes--it frightens you that you’re starting to get used to the way his eyes change so quickly. Now there’s a look in his eyes that you recognize, but it’s forced. He lets go of your wrist to trail deft fingers up your arm and across your shoulder. “I can make you scream, if that’s what you really want,” he says.

       You reel back and resist the urge to slap him again. “You’re a pig.”

       He drops his voice another octave purposefully, “Just crazy about you.”

       “You’re fucking crazy alright,” you agree. You turn to the door.

       “(y/n),” he calls after you (you pretend not to hear the smug smile in his voice). “Thank you for apologizing so sweetly.”

       You clench your fist and continue walking--because you’re going to be the adult here, you’re going to walk away and stop letting the crazy asshole get to you--but the sound of his voice halts you again.

       “And (y/n)?” He pauses for a long time, until you turn your head just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “Tell Geoff to keep his hands to himself,” he says, dangerously low.

       You slam the door behind you when you leave, then lean your back up against the wall, take a deep breath, and tell yourself over and over again that your heart is only racing because he’s a maniac and not, not, _not_ for any other reason.

 

       You lie to Geoff when he asks if you settled things with Ryan. You never wanted to lie to him again but you know that telling him the truth will only create a bigger rift between the two of them and you can’t be the cause of the Fakes falling apart, not after what they did for you. Ryan must act the same way because, over the course of the next few days, Geoff never brings it up again. You suppose it’s for the better; Geoff finally seems more relaxed and, though you avoid Ryan like the plague, you occasionally catch them chatting and laughing together and it makes you feel better. He might be the biggest asshole and lunatic you've ever met, but you can tell that he has a friendship with Geoff that runs deep and you know it's more important to preserve that for Geoff's sake rather than cause anymore drama.

       You spend the majority of your time in Geoff’s room, searching for new apartments in the area, but you occasionally spend time getting your ass kicked in every video game imaginable by the lads (minus Gavin most of the time, he’s just as bad as you are). Jack goes to your apartment to get your stuff, not letting you join her despite your numerous protests ( _too dangerous_ , she says), and she piles it all into one of the many vacant rooms in the building for storage. You live in that same sort of surreal, domestic bliss with Geoff just like before--and you definitely, _definitely_ never think about anyone other than him. Because why would you? What reason would you have to think about someone who purposely plucked at tender memories just to get a rise out of you? That's what you keep asking yourself anyway.

       You wake up one night to an empty space beside you in bed; it’s still dark outside and you hear no sounds coming from the bathroom. You frown and sit up. “Geoff?” you call tentatively. When you hear nothing in return your frown deepens and you stand and pull on a long t-shirt. You can’t find him anywhere in the apartment, not in the bedroom, living-room, or kitchen, and a sense of panic begins to rise in your stomach. You take to the hallway, intent on making it to Jack’s room, but you stop when you hear the sound of muffled voices behind one of the doors you’ve never opened.

       You count each individual tone as you hear them--the low, sarcastic sound of Ray, Gavin’s lilting British accent, the crack in Geoff’s voice-- you count each member of the Fake AH Crew as they speak behind the closed door. It’s hard to make out most of what they’re saying but you hear one word that you wouldn’t miss in a million years. _Tinkerbell_.

       You throw the door open and find six pairs of surprised eyes staring in your direction--Ryan isn’t even wearing his mask (you see the crew look between you and his exposed face several times before it seems to finally settle with them that you’re not surprised and he’s not worried). “Did you find him?” you pierce Geoff with a gaze that you hope says everything you need it to, something along the lines of _you better not lie to me, motherfucker_. You do your best to ignore Ryan's face but he's fucking distracting and your eyes keep flicking in his direction despite yourself--strong jaw, long blonde hair, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when they skim the length of your exposed legs, _fuck._

       “I told you she’d find out,” Michael mutters under his breath.

       “(y/n),” Geoff starts, snapping you from the thoughts you totally weren't having because nope, nope, nope. 

       You don’t want to hear it. “You’re not doing this without me,” you say between clenched teeth. “I know you’re trying to protect me but I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” You look down at your feet and say less forcefully, “I know I may have fucked up the first time, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

       “It’s too dangerous. You’re not even healed yet,” Jack says sympathetically.

       “She’s right,” Geoff agrees. “It’s too soon for you to do anything, let alone try to go after him. What if you have another--?”

       “I won’t,” you snap before he can finish his sentence. You know he’s worried about your panic attacks, especially after witnessing first-hand how debilitating they are, but you know you’re stronger than that. You know you can help them if they give you a chance. “Trust me.”

       “I think she’ll make a good addition to the plan,” Ryan says, to everyone's surprise. “What?” he shrugs a shoulder when all eyes turn to him. “If she can survive what she did there I don’t think helping with a little job like this will be too much trouble for the princess.”

       You’re shocked by how genuine he sounds and you mouth a quick ‘thank you’ at him, to which he gives you a small nod in reply. If there’s one thing about Ryan that’s a saving grace it’s that he understands the life you live better than anyone--he knows you’re good at what you do, and he’s apparently unafraid to say it. And how the fuck are you supposed to stay mad at him when he vouches for you like that, and looks at you with a hint of a smirk that you can actually see like that? 

       “I think Ry-bread’s right,” Gavin nods. “Plus we’ll protect her if anything goes wrong!”

       “ _If_ ,” Ray scoffs.

       “Who the fuck are _you_ gonna protect?!” Michael laughs. “We need to save your ass, like, every single time!”

       “Wot?!” Gavin squawks indignantly. “You do not!”

       You turn to look at Geoff while the lads launch off into a conversation of their own. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” you say softly. “I just want to help take that bastard down.”

       “She has a right to help,” Jack says after a moment. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to her.”

       “Fine,” Geoff sighs, drawn out and just a little bit whiny. “Fine, you can help.”

       You smile gratefully at both of them and take a seat on the floor since the crew is occupying the majority of the seating in the living-room. You feel a thrill that you haven’t felt in a while as you look around the room expectantly. “Alright, fill me in,” you say.

       “We haven’t located where exactly Tinkerbell is,” Jack supplies. “He must have run pretty far because it sounds like no one has seen him since that night.”

       “Pussy,” Ray says through a fake cough.

       “Since we can’t find him we need to do something to draw him out,” Jack continues. “We located some buildings he owns, one’s that he’s kept off the radar, so they must be important to him.”

       “The plan is to fuck all his shit up until he’s pissed enough to come after us,” Michael chuckles. “Shouldn’t be hard for us. Plus we get some cash on the side.”

       “So, you’re planning a heist?” you ask.

       “Our specialty, love,” Gavin grins.

       “If I remember correctly, you set the alarms off at the bank I was robbing last time, so I’m gonna call bullshit there.”

       “Oh snap,” Michael giggles. “She’s totally right, you’re such an idiot!”

       “Alright, you cunts ready to get this started?” Geoff asks suddenly, standing and pulling a marker from his back pocket. “It's late and I want to get this over with. We’ll have to start from the top now that (y/n)’s here.” He walks towards the wall where a few large maps of the city had been pinned. Scribbles cover the majority of the surfaces--you assume plans from previous heists. “We’re hitting a jewelry store, located smack-dab in the middle of the fuckin’ city,” he begins, circling the location of the store with a thick, black line. “It’s the spot that should have the most value to him, we think. Who knows? Either way, it’s where we’re going first. This is gonna work pretty much the same way the others have, always some twists and turns, but I’m gonna go over it anyway because I fuckin’ can, and because we have fresh meat.”

       You’re a little surprised by his tone but you’ve also never seen him in action like this before. Honestly, it’s kind of hot.

       “First, the distraction. I was gonna have Jack and Gavin do this, but we’ll switch it up now that we’ve got some help. Gavin and (y/n) will enter the shop, acting like a couple getting engaged—look at the rings, blah-blah, all the bullshit that people in love do, got it?”

       You look at Gavin with a little smirk. “I think we can pull that off.”

       “Yeah, well, _you_ might, but be careful ‘cause Gavin is a fuckin’ idiot,” Geoff points out. “While they’re in the store Team Alpha, Ryan and I,” he informs you helpfully, “will run in, guns blazing, and we’ll get the cash and the jewels. During that time we’ll shoot out the security cameras, which (y/n) will locate in the shop and relay to us before the heist begins. I’ll run out, Gavin will chase after me, y’know, pull the heroic move.”

       “I’ll be a right proper hero,” Gavin chimes.

       “I’ll split right, running around to the back of this building,” the tattooed man dots a line to show his path, “where there will be a parked car waiting. Jack, you’ll be in the car along with a shit-load of C-4. Gavin, you’ll follow me all the way here and meet her once you’re sure no cops are following you. And please, for the love of God, make sure no cops are following you. Once Team Bravo is together the two of you will have to drive the car, through the allies, back to the jewelry store. Then you’ll load the building up with explosives.”

       “When will we know to detonate them?” Gavin questions.

       “I’m getting there, hold your fucking horses. It will mostly depend on (y/n) and Ryan; they’ve got the tricky jobs. First,” he addresses you, “you’ll have to play the part of the confused damsel. Y’know, shout for Gavin to come back, act all scared, all that shit. Ryan, you’ll take her hostage for when the cops arrive, got it? Act pissed that your partner ran off or whatever. She has to seem innocent to keep them focused on the distraction rather than chasing my ass down. Make sure to hold a hand over her face like you’re trying to keep her quiet. Once the explosives are in place Jack will give you a signal and you can start taking down the officers as quickly as you can. You know the rules.”

       “No witnesses left behind,” Ryan says with a confident grin.

       “As soon as he takes the first shot, you pull up your mask and help him take them all down,” Geoff says to you. He eyes you warily but you’re practically vibrating with excitement--you hadn’t thought he’d put you at the center of the plan. “Ray, you’ll be on top of the tall building across the street with your sniper. Take down anyone they miss, get the situation under control if anything goes wrong or if they fuck up. This mission depends on the three of you assholes, so don’t fuck it up, okay? After everything is taken care of Team Delta will head back with Team Bravo, who will be waiting for them behind the building with the car. Once you’re a safe distance, light the place up and get the fuck out of there. We’ll have two other cars parked here,” he circles a parking lot behind a store a few blocks away from the jewelry store, “just in case any cops see you driving off. Drive there, jump in the cars, and split. Get into traffic if you can, act fuckin’ natural. We’ll have the vehicle windows tinted so don’t worry about the masks because you won’t have time. Team Bravo will be taking this path,” he draws a line across the map through town, towards a small burger joint located within an amusement park on the beach, “to here. This is our meeting point. Here, we can kick back, get some fuckin’ burgers with our cash—we’ll be golden. Team Delta will take this route,” he draws a separate line.

       “Where am I at, Geoff?” Michael asks with a lopsided grin.

       “Michael, you already know what you’ll be doing: blowing up every fucking piece of evidence we leave behind—wiping us from the map. Any cars we abandon, any people we talk to, you get rid of it. All of that shop doesn’t crumble, you make it crumble. After you make sure the building is gone you’ll have to go pick up Ray and the two of you will take this route to the destination. Because you’ll have the explosives we’ll call if there’s something that needs taken care of.” He looks around the room at each individual to make sure no one looks confused. “So, that’s the fuckin’ plan,” Geoff finishes, capping the marker and turning to face the room. “You fucks got any questions? Good. We’ll perform initial recon tomorrow night. The heist will take place three days from now.”

       You raise a cautious hand, “Who exactly is on each team?” You’ve never worked with anyone else and it’s more difficult than you thought to keep up with all the different roles.

       “Team Alpha is Ryan and I, Team Bravo is Gavin and Jack, Team Charlie is Ray and Michael, and Team Delta is you, and Ryan at the end of the heist. Clear?”

       “Got it,” you nod. You wonder what has possessed Geoff to place you on a team with Ryan but the longer you think about it the more you realize he must have planned the heist so that you’re with the most competent member of the crew when shit starts to hit the fan. It’s pretty sweet of him, actually, and you’re happy he trusts you enough to allow you to join even if you're not exactly looking forward to working with the masked man.

       “Think it’ll scare Tinkerbell out of hiding?” Jack asks.

       “Oh, I’d be disappointed if it were that easy,” Ryan replies darkly. “I want to destroy every building he owns first.”

       “Well,” you say with a devious little smirk of your own. “Why don’t we just do that anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry this update took a little longer. I hope you all enjoy it and enjoy Ryan being absolutely nuts (I do). 
> 
> I could have split this into two chapters probably, but they would have been short so I decided to do both parts here. Hope it flows right.


	17. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the Fakes begin your plot to get back at Tinkerbell.

       You’re glad that it’s starting to get chilly out because Geoff never mentions the fact that you’re wearing sweaters and scarves a lot more--he always wants you to be as comfortable as possible and it makes you feel guilty; Ryan’s bite had faded considerably, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened and even when the bruises fade you still feel like you need to cover up your crime. It doesn’t help that every single time you see Ryan he openly eyes your neck right where he knows the outline of his teeth had marked your skin. You glare at him avidly every time you catch him giving you that predatory look but you know it lacks the luster it needs to make him stop. If you’re being totally honest with yourself that look of his creates pleasant chills on the back of your neck and across your arms. You’re dreading being alone with him for the heist more and more as the minutes tick by. That’s one of the biggest reasons you can’t open up to Geoff about Ryan ( _and_ because you lied to him the first time, _and_ because you feel something you can’t put a finger on for the masked criminal, but hey, who’s counting?), because the heist is in a few days and if he knows there is absolutely no way he’s going to allow you and Ryan to be anywhere near each other.

       You’re so excited to get out on the streets again that you can hardly contain it. Geoff checks your body with critical eyes every night, then has Kerry check your body _twice_ over, to make sure you’re still healing and that you’ll be okay for the job. Kerry very hesitantly okays you for the plan, as long as the Fakes keep a close eye on you--after all, you no longer have to wear your sling, only two of your fingers are still in splints, and you only limp when you’ve been walking around too much and your knee starts to protest. With no stitches, only faded (if any) bruises remaining, and your scabs finally scarred over you’re starting to recognize yourself in the mirror again. You still struggle with the panic attacks, particularly with water, but Geoff helps--especially when he joins you in the shower. That’s always nice.

       On the night before the heist you’re busy sitting in the living room of Michael’s apartment, playing video-games and chatting while Geoff cooks everyone some pre-heist hype dinner composed of everyone’s favorites, when Gavin leans forward to ask you a question that catches you completely off-guard.

       “So, love,” he says in a whisper. “When was the first time you saw Ryan’s face?”

       “Oh shit, now this I wanna hear,” Michael says, pausing the game and leaning forward.

       It feels like so long (and at the same time not long at all) since you were rescued that you actually have to take a second to think about how much time has actually passed. You’re incredibly grateful that Gavin waited until Ryan went to the kitchen to resupply everyone with drinks, but you’re starting to feel nervous because even Jack is curiously awaiting your reply. You finish the final sips of your wine and find yourself wishing you had something much stronger to calm your nerves. “It was while you guys were rescuing me,” you blurt a little louder than intended, then cringe and lower your voice. “I had a panic attack when I saw his mask.” You vividly remember begging him not to kill you and sink lower into your seat, keeping your eyes trained on your lap. “He took it off to get me to calm down.”

       Michael whistles.

       “What?” you ask with a frown.

       “He must really like you.”

       Ray scoffs. “He would’ve killed any of us without hesitation before taking off his mask in a place like that and he likes us. Right? I think? At least everyone but Gavin probably, ah fuck, what do I know?”

       “Awe!” Gavin cooes. “Ry-bread’s in love! That’s so cute!”

       “What’d I miss?” Ryan asks as he steps back into the room. He’s unmasked, has taken to simply not wearing his mask around you at all anymore, and your eyes follow the arch of his eyebrow subconsciously. He hands drinks out, approaching you last and taking the seat on the couch beside you.

       Gavin says something in reply, something to cover up what you were really talking about, but you don’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. You stare at Ryan, at the features of his face and the expression he makes when he laughs at whatever bullshit Gavin is spouting, and you try to read him the same way that he seems to read you so well without even trying. There’s no way that he’s--no, not _Ryan_ , there’s no way, you're not even entirely sure he's _capable_ of such an emotion. He turns to hand you a new glass of wine and, dammit, he must have figured out you were staring because he gives you a knowing little grin. You take the glass from him with a quiet thanks and you don’t miss the look Jack gives the two of you when Ryan leans back and almost too-casually places his arms over the back of the couch; his right arm is close enough to your shoulders that you can feel the heat of his skin radiating onto the back of your neck. You take a few large gulps of wine and relish in the burn in causes in your throat and stomach--you haven’t been allowed to drink since being rescued but you get a freebee tonight since the heist is tomorrow.

       Ryan acts unusually relaxed (and somehow gentlemanly?) as the night continues. He asks if you’re comfortable a few times, in reference to your position beside him or your healing injuries you’re unsure, and he refills your glass of wine whenever it runs dry. The foggier your head gets the more you find yourself leaning into him, and the more you lean into him the more his arm continues to slide around your shoulders (and the more his fingers brush the back of your neck and arm) when the others aren’t looking.

       You’re pressed up against Ryan’s side and looking up at him with wide eyes as he tells a story about how he and Ray just about got gunned down at a bank once when Geoff walks into the room to announce that dinner is ready. Ryan stiffens beside you and Geoff looks suspicious until he notices how flushed your cheeks are.

       “Let her have booze before the heist and she gets drunk,” Geoff says with a shake of the head and a fond smile.

       “I’m not drunk,” you protest even though your words are slurred just a bit. You try to sit up a little straighter but your head swims and you fall back against the plush cushions. “Maybe I’m a little drunk.”

       “She’s gonna be feeling it tomorrow,” Michael snickers.

       “A quick blaze will take the edge off,” Ray comments off-handedly, never peeling his eyes away from the TV screen.

       “I think it’s good that she’s finally relaxing,” Jack says with a smile.

       “Yeah exactly, I’m just trying to help her get really relaxed.”

       Gavin, who has also had a little too much to drink, suddenly pauses the game again and crawls up across both your and Ryan’s laps. He stretches out across your legs like a cat and reaches up to pat your head with a giddy laugh. “I think we should keep her,” he says.

       “That’s not how it works, you idiot,” Michael remarks.

       “But, but, Micoo, we gotta keep her though, boy! She’s so lovely!”

       “Eh, she’s okay,” Ray shrugs.

       “I think having another girl around is nice,” Jack comments. “It’s too much of a sausage fest around her without her.”

       “Just mad you don’t have a sausage,” Ray mutters under his breath, reaching back to unpause the game on Gavin’s controller, earning a series of protests and laughs from the other players.

       “Well it’s good that everyone is in agreement because I’m pretty fuckin’ sure she’s not going anywhere,” Michael says with a waggle of his eyebrows towards Geoff.

       You feel Ryan’s arm tense underneath you (when had you rested your head on his arm like that?) for just a moment but by the time you turn to look at him he’s relaxed again and his face is pleasantly calm, the same way it’s been throughout the night.

       The leader of the crew rolls his eyes, “Shut the fuck up. Get dinner while it’s hot, you assholes.”

 

       You’re lying on Geoff’s bed, scantily clad in only your undergarments and not sure how you got there. Your vision is blurred around the edges and it’s hard to focus on anything because your eyes keep crossing when you try, but you’re otherwise content, giddy and with a full belly--you’d almost forgotten how good Geoff’s cooking is.

       Geoff is kneeled next to you on the bed. He’s got both hands on your bare leg and he’s pushing and pulling it around as he runs you through your physical therapy stretches for your knee. At least, you think that’s what he’s doing, you think you remember hearing him tell you that, but right now it’s just making you laugh.

       “Stop, stop!” you giggle and try to roll away. “It tickles!” It doesn’t tickle, not really, it’s more just feeling your leg moving without trying to move it and your fuzzy mind telling you it’s hilarious. Unfortunately he’s straddling your other leg so you don’t get very far.

       He chuckles, “You have to finish your stretches.”

       You huff and flop down, arms outstretched, and try to ignore the urge to laugh every time he shifts your leg in a new direction. Instead you try to focus on his face because it makes you smile even if it’s blurry as hell. He finishes helping you through your stretches--well, more like he finishes _doing_ your stretches for you--as slowly and as carefully as ever, and once he lowers your leg down you reach up and place your hands (admittedly with some effort not to hit him in the face) on either of his cheeks.

       He grins down at you, leaning over you to place a kiss on your cheek. “What are you so fuckin’ happy about, you drunk?”

       “It’s cuddle time now, right?” you ask, wrapping your arms around him and tugging at him until he falls with a soft ‘ _oomph_ ’ next to you on the bed. You’re quick (you think you’re quick, time seems to be moving slower than usual) to turn onto your side and throw an arm and a leg over him. You nuzzle your face into his neck and giggle when his beard hairs tickle your face. “I like you a lot.”

       He gives a long sigh, one that you feel more than you hear. “I know you do,” he says. He wraps an arm around your waist and squeezes you closer to himself, placing a kiss to your forehead. There’s a lengthy moment where nothing but the sound of breathing fills the room and you let your eyes slip shut, thinking that Geoff has probably already fallen asleep. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asks suddenly.

       You hum softly and give him a little nod; your eyelids feel heavy when you try to open them so you opt to keep them shut. “Yeah,” you mumble, “ ‘m excited.”

       “Promise me that you’ll be careful, and that you’ll let me know if your knee or anything else starts bothering you?”

       His voice begins to fade in your ears as he speaks so you only catch the first few words. “I’ll be careful,” you whisper, snuggling further into him while giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Besides, Ryan will protect me.” You laugh a little and then yawn loudly. “Gavin thinks he’s in love with me,” you sigh wistfully. “Can you believe that?”

       You hear Geoff saying something but you’re asleep before you can even think to decipher what it was.

 

       It’s easier to pretend to be engaged to Gavin than you thought it would be, even with the pounding headache from your hangover (if you're ever invited for another heist you are never, ever, _ever_ drinking the day before ever again). You hold hands and give each other doting looks and tell the jeweler your made-up story about how you met--you have her absolutely swooning over the two of you almost instantly. You tell her that Gavin ( _Justin_ you call him on whim because you hadn’t come up with fake names beforehand) had flown to the States after years of speaking to one another online to ask your father’s permission to marry you and had proposed on a beach at dusk, and that you both couldn’t be happier. Gavin smiles wide and recounts the first time he saw your face and how beautiful you were in person and you know you have her, hook, line, and sinker, when you see the look on her face as he speaks. She enthusiastically leads you right to the most expensive section of wedding rings, all big, flashy diamonds surrounded by more diamonds, and begins rattling off why each and every one of them will be perfect for you. She sizes your finger and you’re trying on one of the most expensive rings in the store when Geoff and Ryan burst through the front doors. You’re so into your role that you’re genuinely surprised by their entrance and jolt when they start yelling instructions towards the jeweler.

       The woman gives a scream for help that’s cut short when Geoff trains his gun on her. Ryan quickly shoots out every camera that you informed them about over the com when you had first entered the store, and then starts smashing the glass cases and shoving as much gold and jewels into his bag as he can.

       You force your body to shake and cling tightly to Gavin’s arm as the jeweler grabs the cash from the register and gives it over to Geoff, all the while begging him not to hurt her. “Hurry it up!” he snaps impatiently. Alarms suddenly start to go off in the store, loud and blaring, and Geoff growls low in his throat and shoots the jeweler in the head. He’s quick to grab the rest of the cash from the register himself as people along the street begin to approach the commotion. “I thought we’d make it out before she tripped the stupid alarm,” he says more to himself than to anyone else.

       You turn your head as Ryan saunters towards you slowly, leisurely even with the alarms blaring and people on the street starting to shout, and Gavin steps in front of you and puffs out his chest in a gesture of protection that’s so sweet you raise your hand to your chest and almost smile.

       “Empty your pockets and you might not end up like her,” Ryan says, motioning with his gun to the limp body of the jeweler.

       Gavin actually begins reaching for his pockets but he’s cut off when Geoff shouts: “We’ve gotta get out of here, Alpha Two!” He shoulders his bag and takes off running into the street before Ryan has time to reply.

       The Vagabond gives Gavin a little wink and the British man gives the most minute nod back before running after Geoff with a heroic shout of “ _Stop, thief!_ ”  

       You actually do smile this time, because this is the first time you’ve ever worked with anyone on a job and you had no idea it would all be so _theatrical_ , but your smile quickly vanishes when Ryan grabs you none-too-gently by the arm and drags you towards him.

       He spins you in his arms, holds you close, and presses his gun to your temple a little harder than necessary. “Time for the fun part,” he whispers into your ear.

       You clutch your fingers around the arm that’s holding you, trying to ignore the way his body feels so snug against your back (trying to ignore the memories of times before when you were in the same position but wearing much _less_ ), and scream for help from the terrified onlookers. Sirens ring louder than the alarm as three police cars round the corners onto the street and screech to a halt in front of the store; armed cops begin pouring out of their vehicles and Ryan’s arm tightens around you just a little. “Please, help me!” you cry to them, struggling weakly to escape.

       The police begin trying to reason with the Vagabond, trying to get him to release you, when the com rings loud in both of your ears.

       “There’s been a change of plan!” Jack’s voice yells. “Apparently some other goodie-two-shoes followed Bravo Two to help chase down Alpha One and they brought the heat with them! We’ve got cops everywhere! Team Bravo and Team Alpha need to make a run for it!”

       “Fuck,” Ryan curses lowly.

       “What about the building?!” Michael shouts. “You idiots have the C4!”

       “Charlie One, you have just as many explosives!” Jack reminds. “You’re going to need to take care of it!”

       “Fuck! Fine! Team Delta, get your asses out of there, now!”

       “Why did I think this was ever gonna go right?” Ray sighs.

       You hear gunfire as Ray begins sniping police and civilians alike outside. You take the moment of confusion as everyone tries to figure out where the shots are coming from to tug your mask from your collar and pull it over your face. Ryan hands you the extra gun he has strapped to his belt and the two of you begin taking down people one shot at a time. You both take cover behind the doorframe and take turns shooting and reloading; bullets fly through the door and into the walls behind you at intermittent rates so you make your best judgement for when to turn and fire back--you have a few close calls, bullets whizzing past your ears and imbedding into the ground near your feet. The sound of shattering glass is loud enough to drown out the sound of the bullets and sirens as the cops shoot out the windows on either side of the storefront; bullets soon begin to reign in from all sides and you wince when once grazes your shoulder. You curse when you hear the distant sound of more approaching sirens.

       “My position’s been compromised,” Ray speaks evenly into the com. “Charlie One, how much time before you can blow the place?”

       “I’m moving as fast as I can! T-minus five minutes so I’d recommend leaving now if you haven’t already!” Michael supplies.

       You turn to find Ryan already staring at you. “On my signal,” he says.

       You wait with baited breath, feeling like your heart is in your throat, until there’s a lull in the bullets _just_ long enough and Ryan stands and waves you forward. You stay close behind him, taking out the remaining cops that you can see, but more police cars are whirring around the corner on either side of the street. You can’t remember the last time you were in such a sticky situation and your adrenaline is beginning to give way to fear.

       Ryan grabs for your hand and starts running, leading you down an unmarked alleyway a few buildings down. “Team Delta is clear,” he gives the signal and not a second later there’s a massive explosion as the jewelry store blows. It’s loud enough that it makes your ears ring but Ryan keeps pulling you along, shouting orders that you don’t hear.

       “I’m grabbing the car and going to get Charlie Two,” Michael informs over the com, his voice dull in your ear.

       “Yeah well hurry the fuck up, we may or may not have a helicopter on the way,” Ray actually sounds a bit shaken and it makes your stomach drop.

       You can hear the echo of bullets clattering through the alleyway behind you, hear the muted shouts of police-officers to one another, and the sinking feeling in your stomach worsens. You keep your gun at the ready, twist your head to check behind you every few seconds, but the further Ryan drags you the further away the cops sound and the less gunshots you hear. You feel relieved when you see a street come into view (Ryan had led you through so many twists and turns in the alley that you weren’t sure _he_ even knew where he was anymore), until you notice two cop cars waiting for you. You hear the distinct sound of helicopter blades and you stick close to Ryan as you see one fly overhead, spotlight shining down as it helps search the alley.

       “Fuck,” Ryan mutters, sticking tight to the brick wall and peeking around the corner. The cops are patrolling the street with their guns raised, clearly aware that you fled into the alleys but not exactly sure where you are--that’s good, at least, probably the only silver-lining to the entire fucked up situation right now.

       “Status report, Team Delta!” Geoff calls over the com.

       You press the button on your earpiece with, admittedly, shaky fingers. “Not great,” you whisper.

       “Where are you?!”

       You don’t have time to respond--you barely have time to hear the shout of warning. You watch as two bullets rip through Ryan’s arm and shoulder, the back of his jacket shredding at the point where one passes through, blood splattering to the ground behind him. You draw in a sharp breath and rush to him, catching him as the impact knocks him off his feet, stumbling under the weight of his body. “Alph--Delta One is hit,” you say into the intercom frantically, wincing as you hear the panic in your own voice. You can already feel the warm blood seeping through his clothes, wetting your own shirt where he’s leaned against you. You hear the others shouting, worried, wanting to know what’s happened, so you offer them what little information you can. “It’s not too bad but his arm is useless.”

       Another shot goes off, the sound ringing through the air. You’re too slow to react and the bullet tears right through Ryan’s chest, flying out of his back and into your stomach--you feel it rattle inside you as it lodges somewhere against your ribs. Even as you scream in pain you tighten your arm around the man who has become dead weight against you. You raise your gun and shoot the offending officer right between the eyes, then drag Ryan’s body into a small alcove in the alley. Your instincts take over and you press your hand against the open wound in his chest, tears welling in your eyes as you feel his blood gush against your fingers. “Ryan, Ryan, _please_ ,” you shake him gently. You catch your breath and lift your hand, coated in his blood, to your ear, “Ry--Delta One’s hit—we’re both hit, it’s bad. I need to get him out of here.” You take another shot as a cop rounds the corner looking for you, hitting him first in the thigh and then in the head when he falls to the pavement; you have no idea how many bullets you have left, or how many cops are out there.

       You don’t have time to listen to the shouted replies of the others as you pull Ryan’s non-wounded arm over your shoulder, ignoring the burning protest at your center. You fire a few shots at the remaining officers with your free hand, stumbling backwards and moving between buildings as well as you can until you’re completely lost and the sounds of sirens begin to fade as the cops lose interest (typical Los Santos). Once you’re far enough away you stuff your gun into your belt, rip the earpiece out of your ear because you can hardly hear yourself think over the voices of the crew (and you have more important things to focus on right now), and put your hand back over the hole in Ryan’s chest, applying enough pressure to stop the blood-flow.

       You lean him against a damp brick wall for a moment and rip off his mask so that he can breathe better. You move to throw it into a nearby dumpster but he growls out a gravelly ‘ _don’t you dare_ ’ so you roll your eyes and unceremoniously shove it into the back pocket of his pants. “I think you’re too attached,” you mutter under your breath.

       “You have no idea,” he says so quietly that you just barely hear it. The moment of tense silence is broken when he takes a large gulp of fresh air. “(y/n),” his voice is ragged and his breathing is shallow, “just leave me. Get out of here.”

       “Shut up,” you immediately reprimand him--it’s not the time, you _know_ it’s not the time, but here Ryan is trying to save you again (by leaving him this time, that fucking asshole, who does he think you are?) and you can’t help but think about what Gavin said last night. “I’m not leaving you anywhere, understand?” you say. “Your legs work just fine, fucker, so use them.” You’re relieved when he stops leaning so heavily against you, supporting some of his own weight as the two of you stumble further away from the scene.

       He grins weakly through the pain, “This doesn’t mean you’re getting any of my cut.”

       You have half the mind to smack him but you refrain. “I don’t want any of your money, asshole. Do you think you can make it a few blocks or do I need to jack a car?”

       “Where are you planning on taking me?”

       “I’ve got a place where we’ll be safe.”

       “I thought your apartment was across town?” he questions, his footsteps lagging in pace, his limbs beginning to feel heavier. “Plus Tinkerbell will have everything you own staked out.”

       A mirthless laugh rolls off your tongue, “Not everything. I won't let him find us, I'm not stupid.”

       He coughs and some blood spills from his lips. “Just making sure.”

       You heave his arm further over your shoulder, holding his wrist tightly, and wrap your other arm around his waist. “I’m not thinking you’re going to make it the whole way on your feet.”

       “I can make it,” he protests even as he leans against you more heavily again.

       “Shut up,” you repeat more firmly. “Look, there’s road is right there. I’ll find a car and we’ll leave them an IOU or something. But before we head out there…” You pause, gently moving him until he’s leaned against a wall. When you’re pretty sure he isn’t going to fall to the ground you very quickly pull down your mask and rip the hair-tie from your hair, fluffing it around your shoulders. You pull your sweater over your head, leaving you in just your undershirt, and then carefully strip Ryan’s jacket from his arms before throwing it over your own shoulders. “There,” you nod, pulling him back to his feet. “Now we aren’t _as_ recognizable, at least.”

       “I mean, if the cops are blind, maybe,” Ryan laughs airily. You like whatever the dynamic is between the two of you right now, the joking even though the situation is dire, you like the thought that you can exist with him as friends, nothing more and nothing less. Together the two of you continue slowly stumbling out towards the street--you thank your lucky stars you don’t see any more cop cars, or anyone at all for that matter. It’s easy enough to find and hot-wire a car and to lay Ryan down in the backseat, and it’s easy enough to smile at anyone you happen to pass by on the street as you head to your workspace; it’s the safest, closest location you can think of despite the fact that you’re going to compromise the one spot you’ve always kept under tight wraps. You’re glad you thought to grab the key before the heist in case of an emergency.

       Once you’re inside you lay Ryan down on the bed and apologize that there’s nothing comfier when he winces. You shuffle around the small space, grabbing the first aid kit and anything else you think you’ll need. “Do you think you can manage to take off your shirt?” you ask.

       “I don’t really know if now is the time for that kind of thing,” Ryan says weakly. “But I won't stop you if you're feeling up for it.”

       And _there_ it is, he always has to ruin the potential friendship somehow. “Just do it,” you press even as your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

       “But I’ll get blood all over your nice, comfy bed and then I’ll feel bad,” he goes on, pulling gasped breaths of air between his teeth every few words. He sighs when he sees your stern look, then carefully sits up and begins stripping off his shirt, noticing your wince as your eyes follow the blood that has stained all of his chest and arm. “Well doc, how long do I have?” he teases in a vain attempt to lighten the mood.

       You're beginning to realize that you haven't heard Ryan talk, let alone _joke_ , so much with you ever; you wonder if his injuries are affecting him more than he's letting on. “You’re an ass,” you try to tease back, but the wounds that mar his flesh have your heart beating rapidly with worry. “Try not to speak anymore,” you inform, very quickly tying a tourniquet made from a scrap of fabric around his bicep to cut off the blood-flow to his arm. You then reach over and grab a towel from the supplies you had gathered; you dip it in the bucket of warm water you had prepared and take a seat next to him. “Hold still,” you order, gently beginning to soak up the blood that smears his skin, wiping until you reach the hole in his chest. You dab at the wound lightly, frowning every time he flinches away from your hands. “You’re lucky,” you assess after cleaning up the blood. “It looks like two of the bullets made a clean exit.”

       “How lucky,” came the sarcastic reply.

       You lift the bottle of alcohol from your supplies--you need to sterilize the wounds and this is all you’ve got right now--and waggle it in Ryan’s face briefly, chuckling weakly at his groan of apprehension. As you struggle through your nerves to pull off the cap a set of fingers suddenly touch your face, pulling your attention back to his eyes. You swallow audibly, setting down the cap and grasping his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “It’s going to hurt,” you warn shortly, as though he didn’t know it already. “I’ve got to do this fast.”

       The liquid hits the skin of his collarbone and rolls into the dip in his chest before it seeps through the bullet-hole. He hisses and leans forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, biting his lip hard enough that it began to bleed.

       You give his hand a reassuring squeeze before you gently push him away, so that he’s lying back on the bed once more. You lift the needle and thread from the supplies, catching eyes with him as you do so. You only have limited knowledge on how to stitch a wound properly, but if you don’t give it a shot he’s just going to keep bleeding. “Do you want some kind of medicine before I do this?”

       Ryan shakes his head, “Get it over with.”

       You pull your hand from his and place it on his chest, leaning close as you begin carefully threading the needle through his skin, doing the best you can to patch the wound, at least temporarily. When you finish with the stitches you cut a thick square of gauze and place it over the wound, taping it there tightly. You stitch up the hole in his arm and chest, then you have him turn around and you do the same with the exit-wounds.

       “Wait,” he stops you as you move to work on his shoulder. “You first.”

       “Me?” you question.

       “Here,” he says, pointing a finger towards the blood stain that had coated your waist. “You look pale.”

       You swat his hands away, “Let me finish you up, I’m just ignoring it right now. If you make me think about it it’ll start to hurt more.”

       “It’ll start to hurt more once your adrenaline wears off,” he argues.

       You place your palm on his good shoulder and force him to lay back. “Listen here, I’m the doctor right now, okay?” You turn to grab a set of tweezers, because the bullet didn’t exist his shoulder and you need to take it out, but as you turn back to him you move a little too quickly. Your head starts to spin, small spots of black temporarily creating holes in your vision; Ryan catches you with his good arm as you sway and fall forward. When your vision finally comes back you find yourself with your face pressed against his chest, your hands clutching his bare shoulders. You try to sit back but his arm is tight around you and when you look up at him his eyes are positively _smoldering;_ and you were really hoping you wouldn't have to deal with his rapidly changing moods during the heist, too. “Ryan,” you call to him in an attempt to corral whatever that fire in his eyes means. 

       He cards his fingers through your hair, grips the roots, and tilts your head back until he can look at you more fully. He moves his other hand over the swell of your breast and down your waist until it’s resting over your bullet wound, still seeping warm blood; you gasp when you feel the heel of his palm press against it and sparks of pain alight your nerves. “It’s unfortunate you killed the cop who did this,” he speaks lowly, curling his fingers around your ribcage and pressing his palm in a little harder. “I told you before that I’m the _only_ one who gets to hurt you. Though, I suppose, it's better that it went through me first.” His eyes are bright, crazed. “ _Our_ blood,” he mutters, lifting his hand and licking some of the blood from his palm. He kisses you then, as if you haven’t both been shot and need medical attention, nips at your lip and slips his tongue between your teeth when you gasp.

       You taste copper and try to pull away from him but before you can his hands find your thighs and drag you forward until you’re straddling his lap. He grips your hips tight, the way he always does, and the shock of thrill and arousal you feel when he forces his hips up against yours is staggering (or it could be the fact that you’re still losing blood, it’s difficult to tell). “We can’t,” you gasp, turning your face away.

       He trails his kisses across your cheek and jaw down to your neck where he sucks red marks into the skin below your ear and along your jugular vein. “We can,” he says, tone a little darker, gripping your hips a little tighter. He nips at your neck and then he’s kissing you again and it’s suddenly more urgent, more passionate. “You look so pretty like this,” he whispers, digging his thumb against your bullet wound.

       You gasp, feeling light-headed, knowing that you need to stop both your own bleeding and his before you both pass out, but his grip is surprisingly strong for someone who has just been shot three times and you can’t fight it. “We _can’t_ ,” you try again.

       He frowns, eyes dark, and pushes the tip of his thumb into the hole in your stomach. When you cry out and try to squirm away he shushes you with another kiss and pulse of his hips.

       “Ryan,” you gasp, because it hurts and you want him to stop (not because you’re trying to encourage him, not because it feels good, and _not_ because it’s been so long since you’ve been so close to him). He growls approvingly at the sound of his name and his fingers go to work trying to unbutton your pants but the second he starts dragging your zipper down you shove hard against his chest, separating yourself from him and falling back against the mattress with enough force to make your head spin. “Oh my god,” you whisper, covering your face with your hands because you’re filled with sudden clarity and all you can think about is _Geoff_. “Ryan, we need to stop, we need to tell the others where we are so they can send help,” you say shakily, not daring to take your hands from your face. It’s silent for a beat, you can’t even hear the sound of him breathing though it was labored not moments ago, so you peek through your fingers to see the last expression you ever wanted to see--dark, emotionless, no longer Ryan but instead the expression you now associate with the  _Vagabond_.

       He lurches forward and his fingers grip your belt-loops and drag your pants down your legs in one smooth motion. You try fruitlessly to shove him away but his wide shoulders are between your legs, large hands on your thighs to hold them apart, and his teeth are biting deep into your inner thigh before you can think to tell him to stop. “You’re _mine_ ,” he says against your skin angrily, sucking another mark into your flesh beside the bite. “And If you don’t tell Geoff soon, I will.” He bites your other thigh then and you gasp and your back arches involuntarily as he presses two fingers against your clit through the fabric of your panties. “Tell me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your hip, fingers twisting in brutal, tight circles against you and drawing moans and whimpers from between your lips. “ _Tell_ _me_ ,” he demands again.

       Your head is starting to feel foggy and it’s getting difficult to breathe because each time you try to draw in air sharp pain spreads from your stomach into your chest. “I-I can’t,” you shake your head. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

       Ryan’s frown deepens and he takes his hands off you, leaning forward until his face is hovering just above your own. “(y/n),” he says.

       You try to focus your eyes on him but your vision and hearing are both fading fast. Instead you reach up and place your hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

       He turns his head and kisses your palm. “The war isn’t over yet,” he says, his voice almost _playful_ , like a hunter chasing down prey that got away the first time.

       The world fades rapidly, but you don’t think you’d ever be able miss what Ryan says next because he leans in, kisses your cheek, and whispers it right into your ear.

 _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot just got a whooooole lot thicker.
> 
> This chapter is 16 pages in a document so I'm pretty excited about that. I've been super, super busy lately so I apologize that this took a while to update! Thank you all for your continuing love and support!


	18. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

       You wake up in a familiar, bright, white room--the déjà vu you feel is astounding, the only difference being that there’s not a tube down your throat and you’re aware enough of your location that you’re not panicking at all (thank goodness). You have no recollection of how you got here or how anyone even found your workspace in the first place, but it’s not difficult to assume that Ryan called someone after you passed out. You raise a hand to your stomach and hiss when your hand touches a thick pad of gauze taped to your skin. “Fuck,” you mutter.

       “Yeah, I’ll say.”

       You turn your head to find Geoff sitting in a chair beside your bed, leaned back with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest; it looks oddly closed off and unfriendly for someone as happy and exuberant as Geoff usually is. Your gut reaction is to smile at him but you don’t because your gaze finally wanders to his face and he looks absolutely _pissed_. He doesn’t say anything, even when your expression noticeably drops. You try to fill in the blanks in your mind but no matter how hard you try you can’t come up with anything--which means not only did you fuck up the mission (the one thing he told you **not** to do during the planning) but it’s also highly probably that Geoff found you with Ryan, _alone_ and in who-the-fuck-knows what kind of position. You really hope that Ryan at least redressed you. “Um, did everyone else make it out safe?” you ask quietly.

       Geoff’s eyebrows draw further down and deepen the lines in his face. “You would know that if you had your _com_ , wouldn’t you? Please tell me why in the _hell_ you thought it was a good idea to take it out?” His fists tighten in his lap and he doesn’t let you speak when you try. “What the dicks were you thinking, cutting off all communication with us?!” He takes a breath, as if trying to calm himself down. “Do you know how _fucked up_ it is to tell us you’ve been shot and then just, just disappear?”

       “Geoff, I--”

       “Ryan could have been dead.” He lowers his head so you can’t see his eyes. “ _You_ could have been dead. Why didn’t you just tell us what was going on?” His voice turns from furious energy to a pathetic whisper and you feel your heart shattering when it quivers as if he’s on the verge of tears--frustrated or otherwise.

       “I’m sorry,” you croak. “I know it was stupid, I just, Ryan was bleeding **so** much and I panicked and I couldn’t _think_ with everyone shouting.” It’s not good enough, you know it’s not, you don’t think anything you can say to him will be good enough. “I really don’t know what to say, Geoff. I’ve only ever worked alone and I’ve never had everything crumble around me like that; my first priority became making sure Ryan was okay. I passed out before I could--”

       His head snaps up, an overwhelming amount of anger (hurt, **betrayal** ) burning like wildfire behind his eyes. “Before you could what?” his voice cracks on the last word. “Because it sure seems like you had plenty of time to fuck around.” When you frown he doesn’t hesitate to stoop forward and pull the edge of the sheet away from your lap.

       You gasp when you see the angry purple and red marks that peek out from between your inner thighs.

       “No need to act so fuckin’ surprised. Kerry found them while assessing you for any other injuries.”

       You know what it looks like; your mind hurdles memories of what almost happened with Ryan at you, guilting you, but you didn’t let those things happen because of _Geoff_ so you need to explain yourself (try, at least) before it’s too late. “Geoff, we didn’t--”

       He sighs loudly and lowers his head to cradle his face in his hands.“How long are you assholes going to keep playing me like this?”

       “Geoff, we _didn’t_ \--!”

       “What really happened when you went to talk with him the other day?” he asks quietly. “When you told me that you’d worked things out and that everything was peachy-fuckin’-keen?”

       You frown at the memory and subconsciously raise your hand to touch your throat where Ryan had bit you. You don’t know how to answer his question, how to make him believe that everything you did you did so that you could protect him ( _yeah fucking right_ your mind spits vehemently) so you don’t speak for a long time. Everything seems to be stacking against you right now, making it look like you’ve been in some sort of fucked up cahoots with Ryan the entire time while just leading Geoff along even though you haven’t, you **haven’t** been, you just needed time to sort out your feelings--and now you know, you know because you shoved Ryan away _because of Geoff_. And how fucking _convenient_ is it that once you’ve finally got your feelings sorted out something like this happens? You must get lost in thought for a while because you still haven’t found what to say before Geoff speaks again.

       “Do you remember what you said to me the other night?” he asks. “You were drunk and I asked you to promise me you’d be careful.”

       The end of that night is honestly a blur, you don’t even really remember getting to bed and you certainly don’t remember promising Geoff anything, so you shake your head.

       “You told me that Gavin thinks Ryan is in love with you,” he says, voice cracking over the word _love_.

 _What the fuck_. You can still vividly remember Gavin’s words, remember the way he cooed them so sweetly, remember the excited lilt to his voice when he told you--you remember Ryan walking back into the room and you remember nearly staring a hole into his face as you tried to see whatever it was that Gavin apparently saw. What you **don’t** remember is sharing that tidbit of information with Geoff that night. You’re so fucking stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

       “Do you think he’s in love with you?” Geoff asks then, and he sounds so fucking _broken_ that tears are spilling down your cheeks and neck, sliding into the hollow of your throat and collarbones, before you realize you’ve started crying.

       You can hear Ryan’s words playing through your mind as if he’s sitting next to you and whispering them into your ear all over again--you know that you can’t lie to Geoff again, not with something like this. You nod your head solemnly, just the smallest tip, and you hear Geoff exhale a shuddering breath. “Yesterday,” you say with a sniff, “before I passed out, he told me.”

       Geoff’s posture grows impossibly rigid, his muscles as taut as a string about to snap. “He **told** you?” he repeats. “Yesterday, while we were all shitting our pants with worry? While we thought you assholes could have been _dead?_ ” His knuckles are white, tattoos stretched out across pronounced tendons that run along the length of his fingers. He stands so suddenly that you jolt in surprise.

       “Geoff?” you call his name timidly. You haven’t explained anything, you’re still not sure how you’re going to, but you know you need to say something because you risk losing him forever if you don’t. “I don’t love him, I just--”

       “Don’t,” he raises his hand to stop you. He won’t even meet your eyes. When you try speaking again he becomes visibly exasperated. “Stop, just, just shut the fuck up for a minute, okay?! I can’t--I just--I can’t listen to this shit right now.” Another quaking breath leaves him.

       You reach for him, trailing gentle fingers across his forearm down to his fingers in a gesture that’s so familiar that it makes your chest ache, but this time it’s Geoff who rips his hand away from you before you can reach it.

       He doesn’t even offer you another glance before he briskly leaves the room.

       You can’t pinpoint most of the number of emotions that you’re feeling--because there are too many or because you suddenly feel numb as the door swings shut you’re unsure--but you know that above all else you feel regret. Regret that you slept with Ryan after that date all those weeks ago, regret that you didn’t throw out that stupid letter instead of shoving it into a kitchen drawer, regret that you didn’t let Geoff hold your hand when he tried, regret that you kicked him out of your home, regret that even after you fucked up that many times he gave you a second chance and now all you’ve done is _fuck it up again_. You sit in silence for a long time thinking about everything you’ve done wrong, and then you reach to the small table next to you with shaking fingers, lift your phone, and dial Jack’s number.

 

       You’re not sure if it’s because you sobbed hysterically into the phone the second Jack answered but she throws open the door to the room and is sitting beside you in a matter of minutes. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, simply huddles you into her arms and hugs you as close as she can while you cry. She smooths her hands along your hair and down your back and mutters gentle words of reassurance until your breathing evens out. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says softly.

       You lean away from her and roughly wipe the tears and snot away from your face with your arm. You explain everything to her through bouts of crying and sniffling, starting from when you first met Ryan. You tell her how you hated him, hated his guts, hated the whole Fake AH Crew for being such a pain in the ass, and how the first time you slept with him was in a car after he had gunned down a cop that was tailing you. You tell her how after that first time it became somewhat of a routine that would happen nearly every time the Fakes interrupted one of your jobs (or the few times you interrupted theirs), and how it was always a rough fuck that never meant anything--just a moment of self-indulgence after the moments of adrenaline and fear, just one rush after another. You tell her that meeting Geoff was unplanned, that you had been skeptical of him that night in the bar but that after the first date you knew there was something about him that called out to you. You tell her about sleeping with Ryan again and the guilt you felt and the way that he marked your body so ruthlessly after your date that night, and you tell her about everything in-between--how your feelings for Geoff kept growing and how with every step you took further into your unnamed relationship with him the more possessive Ryan got. You tell her probably more than she needs to know but you can’t seem to stop--everything, every detail, pours unfiltered out of your mouth until you’ve bared everything to her. “I’m so confused,” you mutter helplessly. Your eyes are red and puffy and your nose is so blocked up that you can hardly breathe out of it; you’re sure that you look like a disaster and you find yourself glad that Jack is so understanding. “I never meant for things to go this far with Ryan, and I--I never meant to hurt Geoff.”

       “Well, first of all,” she says, taking your hand and giving your fingers a squeeze, “you’re an absolute idiot for removing your com. Don’t ever do anything that stupid ever again.”

       “I know--”

       “Ah,” she holds up her other hand to shush you. “I’m serious. Never again or else I’ll find you and I’ll kick your ass. Now listen.” She leans forward and lowers her voice, keeping her eyes fixed on yours. “I don’t trust Ryan as far as I can throw him. He’s our friend and we need him, but the guy is fucking crazy. Geoff and Ray have both had moments with him where he went completely batshit and they thought he was going to kill them just to gain some extra cash.”

       You remember the cold eyes, the feeling of Ryan’s hand around your throat, the moments when he let his calm façade slip around you--you remember fearing he might kill you. But you also remember his gentle moments, when he put you in bed and cleaned up your house, when he risked his identity being discovered just to calm you down, even just yesterday when he joked with you to lighten the mood and wanted to help you first when he noticed you were pale. The memories only serve to confuse you that much more.

       “He acts different around you though,” Jack continues thoughtfully. “I don’t know why, but I can tell you that I don’t think it’s love.”

       “Why not?” You’re genuinely curious.

       “Because Ryan has only ever loved one thing.”

       An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach. “What’s that?”

       “Murder.”

       You expected it but hearing the confirmation from the mouth of one of Ryan’s friends, his crewmate, is still enough to surprise you. “Then why?” you ask. “Why would he say he _loves_ me? Why would he go through all this trouble for nothing?” Your uneasiness is growing rapidly; as shitty as it is, as much as it would make the situation so much worse, you don’t _want_ Ryan to be lying because what does it mean if he is?

       Jack seems to mull over what she wants to say next, and you can only imagine it’s because her answer is something you don’t want to hear. “Ryan is...possessive,” she says finally. “He always has been, even over the most insignificant things.” She chews on her lip for a moment. “I’m sure when he learned you had a date he wasn’t happy, and he was probably _pissed_ when he found out it was Geoff.”

       “Why?”

       “Well he can't exactly kill Geoff.”

        _Kill?_ Is she implying that if it had been anyone else Ryan would have _killed_  them?! You’re becoming more agitated by the second. “Why would it matter to him?! I was nothing to him but a quick lay every now and again, that’s all! There was nothing between us, but as soon as I go on a date it becomes a problem?!” You sigh, knowing you shouldn’t take your frustration out on Jack. “He put medicine next to my bed and he bandaged my wounds.” You cradle your head in your hands, fresh tears gathering in your eyes. “He’s always been an ass but he’s had these--these _moments_ … If they didn’t mean anything then, then, what? He’s doing all this because--because--?”

       Jack’s phone rings suddenly and she frowns when she reads the display. She answers the call and then her frown deepens; you can vaguely hear shouting on the other end of the call but you can’t make out any words. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “I’ll be right there. Make sure they don’t do anything fucking stupid.” She stands and pockets her phone, then leans forwards to carefully remove your IV.

       “Is everything okay?” you ask, wincing a little as the needle is pulled out. You have no idea what the phone call is about but it isn’t good if Jack’s reaction (or the fact that she’s very suddenly decided to cut you off from your medicine) is anything to go by.

       She grabs a bandage from a nearby countertop and places it over your arm, then helps you to your feet. “You need to come with me.”

 

       You can’t fucking be seeing this, you _can’t_ , the thought that it’s actually happening is making your head spin. Jack had dragged you out of the infirmary while refusing to tell you what the hell was so pressing that it needed your immediate attention--you felt a little nauseous when she approached Ryan’s door but _this?_ You have no idea what you were expecting.

       Geoff is on the ground, lip torn and bloody, a bruise already darkening the skin under his eye. Ryan is standing above him, dangerously close, his eyes wide and positively feral; the only thing stopping him from descending upon Geoff further is Michael, Gavin, and Ray (who honestly look like they’re struggling to hold him back despite it being three to one).

       “Son of a bitch,” Jack curses, skirting by you to kneel next to Geoff. “I told you to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid.”

       “Hey, this ain’t exactly easy,” Michael complains.

       “Yeah,” Gavin agrees. “Ryan’s like a bloody beluga.”

       “What the fu--are you trying to say he’s heavy?” Ray looks bewildered. “I’d say he’s more like a fucking tank.” As if to emphasize his point he pulls harder on Ryan’s arms, his sinewy muscles straining against his skin, and doesn’t move the man an inch.

       “What the hell happened?” Jack asks, diverting her attention away from Geoff who continues to mutter things like ‘ _I’m fine_ ’ and ‘ _I can handle myself_ ’ below his breath.

       “We don’t know,” Gavin answers. “We heard shouting and got here just in time to see this bloke sock Geoff right in the bloody face.”

       “I’ll tell you what happened,” Geoff speaks up. His words are slurred and his eyes are hazy and unfocused. “That guy is a fuckin’ asshole that’s what happened.”

       The nonchalance is staggering given the situation, but then Jack’s words-- _he’s possessive, even over the most insignificant things_ \--ring through your mind and you start to wonder if this kind of thing is a common occurrence around here; you sure hope not. You force your legs to work, to move forward, and you kneel down beside Geoff along with Jack (you ignore the feeling of Ryan’s gaze boring into the back of your skull when you do). “Are you okay?” you ask softly, reaching forward to wipe the blood from his chin. You’re concerned by his drunken stupor more so than the punch he had taken--it couldn’t have been much more than an hour since you last saw him and he seems trashed. You think about how much booze he must have slammed down the second he left the infirmary and it makes your insides twist.

       He slaps your hand away animatedly. “There she is,” he mumbles, noisily slurping the blood from his lip. “Why don’t you go check on _him?_ ” he gestures to Ryan, or at least somewhere near Ryan, “ _First priority_ and all.”

       You feel like you’ve been smacked in the face and you reel back from him as though you have been. Your fingers start to quiver and you take a deep breath because no, you’re _not_ going to cry in front of all these bastards right now.

       “Don’t be such a dick,” Jack chastises. “She’s just trying to make sure you’re alright.”

       “Sure, take **her** side.”

       “Just let him continue to bury himself, Jack,” Ryan says smugly. “I’m starting to think he won’t need my help after all.”

       You’re about to intervene, tell Ryan that this is all his fault, but Geoff speaks first. He struggles to rise to his feet and then sways closer to Ryan, getting right into his face. “You’re a _real_ fuckin’ piece of work, y’know that, bud?” he drawls, jabbing a finger into Ryan’s shoulder pointedly. “I didn--I didn’t wanna get involved in this but _apparently_ it’s easy to lie to me or somethin’ so here I am.”

       “The solution to this problem is really quite simple, Geoff,” comes the calmly worded reply. “All you need to do is stay away from (y/n).”

Anger flares in your body--is he really about to do this in front of everyone? Although, it’s not like what they’re fighting about is much of a secret to anyone; that knowledge alone is enough to make heat rush to your cheeks.

       “No **you** need to stay away from her!” Geoff fires right back. His voice is loud and strained and it’s obvious that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be fighting with his friend, especially while in front of everyone else. Still, the fact that he says it--the fact that he sounds so passionate about it--sparks a little flare of hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll forgive you after all.

       Ryan makes a sound that’s damn close to a growl and thrashes against the hold on him. “That’s not how this works,” he says darkly. “The only rule we’ve ever had around here is that we don’t steal from each other, isn’t that right? If you buy a piece of jewelry I like I don’t try taking it away from you; why won’t you pay me the same courtesy?”

       The fact that he’s comparing you to an object that can be _bought_ has you rising to your feet with clenched fists, but Jack places a hand on your shoulder to stop you. When you shoot her an incredulous look she simply nods towards Geoff--you look back just in time to see him land a surprisingly solid punch against Ryan’s cheek.

       “She’s not a fucking piece of jewelry!” Geoff yells. “Do you even know anything about her?! Do you know what kind of shampoo she uses, or what she likes for breakfast in the morning?! Do you know the little noises that she makes when she’s sleeping?! You said that you love her, but do you?!”

       You blush bright at the _intimacy_ of the statements, at the knowledge that yes, Geoff knows all of that plus so much more about you.

       Ryan actually looks a little taken aback and you wonder if it’s because he didn’t think you would tell Geoff about his confession. “Why does it matter to you if I love her?” he asks lowly.

       “ _Because I do!_ ” The room goes completely, utterly, awkwardly silent--you barely register the feel of Jack’s hand tightening on your shoulder over the quickening pace of your heart. “I love her,” Geoff says again, and he turns his head just enough to catch your eye and it’s so fucking **real** and powerful that you feel all the wind get knocked from your lungs.

       You don't deserve him, there's no way in hell you deserve him.

       Ryan’s posture is absolutely rigid, he doesn’t move a muscle even though the lads hands had slipped away from him during the intense moment. “Well that’s good for you, Geoff,” he says after a tense couple of minutes. “Really, that’s great, but you’re wrong if you think it changes anything.”

       Geoff’s eyebrows draw down. “Yeah,” he hiccups, “I had a feelin’ you’d say that. He takes a step forward, stumbles, and for a moment looks like he’s about to take another swing at the man in front of him. Instead he reaches out and pats him on the cheek, like a parent would a child. “You don’t love her,” he says.

       Ryan bares his teeth in a sneer. “And how the fuck would you know that?”

       “Cause I know you, pal. And ‘m not willing to put up with your shit much longer.”

       “Is that a threat?” the blonde man asks, eyes glimmering with twisted anticipation. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s dying to reach out and throttle the man in front of him, and suddenly everyone seems a little more on edge--like they’re waiting for the Vagabond to make an appearance.

       You stand, despite Jack pleading for you to stay out of it, and approach the two men at the center of everyone’s attention. “Enough,” you say as resolutely as you can. “This is ridiculous; I’ll kick both your asses myself if you keep it up.” You don’t care if you’re not acting as a voice of reason--your mind is racing too fast to conjure up any solution that would appease both of them at the moment--you just want this argument to be over-with.

       Ryan reaches out, his eyes never straying from Geoff’s, and wraps his fingers around your wrist. He pulls your hand close to his face and kisses your knuckles in a display that not only makes the atmosphere in the room that much more uncomfortable but also infuriates Geoff. “I think there’s really only one way to settle this,” he says before the tattooed man decides to lash out again.

       “Listen to me?” you suggest hopefully.

       His eyes dance to yours, filled with dark amusement. “No,” he says easily, lips still gently caressing your fingers. “How about we make a little wager? Whoever finishes off Tinkerbell wins the prize.”

       You frown, not only because he’s referring to you as an object to be won _again_ , but also because his solution is more fucked up than you ever could have imagined. “Absolutely n--”

       “Deal,” Geoff says, outstretching his hand.

       Ryan releases your wrist to solidify their agreement. “May the best man win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooly shit. It took a while for me to figure out how to write this chapter, so I apologize for the delay and I hope it was worth the wait!


	19. A Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff lays down the law.

       “Whoa man, that’s pretty fucked up,” Michael says before Geoff and Ryan have even finished their handshake. “Well, maybe not for Ryan, but what the fuck, Geo--?”

       Geoff rips his hand away from Ryan’s and spins on his heel to grab his bottle of liquor off the floor--no one tries to stop him as he takes a long drink. “This has nothing to do with you,” he answers Michael finally.

       “Hey, what the fu--?!”

       “Geoff, buddy, that’s not cool,” Ray says with a shake of his head.

       Jack changes positions abruptly, moving to stand between the lads and Geoff when she notices his knuckles turning white around the neck of his liquor bottle--Geoff has never, _never_ been violent (heists aside) but he’s already punched one of his crewmates today and now he’s snapped at another. “We should leave,” she says to the lads. “I think everything has...calmed down here,” she speaks hesitantly, because the situation is more tense _now_ than it had been when Geoff and Ryan were actively trying to hurt one another. Honestly, she looks like she’s more than ready to give both men an earful but instead she ushers the lads towards the door despite their gawking, attempts to offer you comfort, and Michael’s glaring heatedly at the leader of the Fakes. “If either of these idiots do anything to upset you more, you tell me,” she says to you. She offers a blatantly pissed off look to both Ryan and Geoff and then she closes the door, leaving the three of you alone.

       “What about me, Geoff?” you ask once you’re sure the others are out of earshot. Your voice comes out so much softer than you meant it to; you wanted to sound angry, scolding, but instead you sound so _defeated_. You’re so embarrassed that this argument, that their stupid _deal_ , happened in front of the others that your ears are positively burning. “Does it have nothing to do with me either?” Fingers dance across your waist just before a large hand settles on your hip and before you can protest you’re being dragged close enough to Ryan’s frame that you can feel his breath fan your collarbone when he exhales.

       “Oh, this has everything to do with you,” he purrs, and it seems like he’s completely forgotten that Geoff is in the room at all (but you’re sure he hasn’t, you’re sure this is all part of his increasingly fucked up plan) because he leans even closer and presses a kiss under your jaw.

       “Don’t fucking touch her,” Geoff hisses.

       Ryan’s eyes snap up but he doesn’t move an inch, even when you push against his chest. In fact, his fingers actually tighten against your hip and the corners of his lips turn up in a smirk.

       “Ryan,” you whisper, voice shuddering. You clutch at the dark t-shirt that stretches over the expanse of his chest; your only hope is to try to reach that part of Ryan that you know exists somewhere deep beneath the harsh exterior--the Ryan that put you in bed and cleaned your kitchen, the Ryan who took his mask off to calm you down, the Ryan who **cares** about you. “Please call it off.” You can feel his laugh in your fingertips where they press against his chest, and you feel his hand pet through your hair.

       “I’ll call it off if Geoff agrees to back off,” he replies, voice frigid and in such contrast to his gentle touch against your scalp that you feel a chill crawl down your spine.

       “No, _you_ need to back off!” Geoff slurs, taking a stumbling step forward.

       Ryan releases you and raises both hands in defense. “Look, I don’t want to fight,” he says. “I offered you a solution and you agreed to it; if you’ve decided to change your mind then fine.”

       “Will you leave us alone if he changes his mind?” you ask. You know the answer already, you’d be stupid if you didn’t, but hey, a girl can try.

       He turns and gives you a grin like you’re in on some big joke with him. “Of course not.” He reaches towards you and manages to run a finger over your cheek before you step out of reach--when you do his little grin falters and you see a spark of something ( _irritation? annoyance? anger?_ ) flash in his eyes. “Don’t forget that there was **us** long before _him_ , Princess.”

       You feel an angry and embarrassed flush rise from your neck up to your cheeks. “Leave,” you say flatly. “I need to talk to Geoff. _Alone_.”

       “You want me to leave the two of you alone in _my_ room?” he asks.

       “Yes.” You meet his surprised (impressed?) expression head-on with a glare and a pointed look towards the door. “There are plenty of other rooms for you to use around here.”

       Ryan cocks an indignant eyebrow. “Fine, but first I’d like to know if our deal is still on.” He looks towards Geoff expectantly, and that infuriatingly triumphant smirk appears back on his lips when he sees the livid expression on the man’s face. He waits for a moment, watching the man sway on his feet, and then he has the audacity to hum the tune from a game-show as if Geoff was running out of time to supply an answer.

       “Yes,” Geoff finally speaks through gritted teeth.

       “Good man,” Ryan nods approvingly.

       “Will you please leave now?” you ask, and you regret your choice of words as soon as they leave your mouth because Ryan’s eyes flash almost _hungrily_ when he hears the plead from you. You step back, fearing he’ll try something, and it only serves to twist his smirk wider. You don’t realize that you’ve been holding your breath until he turns and heads for the door and you exhale a shuddering breath.

       “Behave, you two,” he warns, waving his fingers playfully despite the fact that his eyes are narrowed and dark. “Don’t forget the kindness I’m paying the two of you, letting you use my room like this.” With that, the doors swings shut with a loud bang and he’s gone.

       You take a moment to collect yourself (and lock the door, _and_ prop a chair under the door handle just in case) and when you look up you see that Geoff has taken a seat on the couch. “Geoff?” you call to him.

       He leans forward suddenly, miserably, to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and then continues to repeat it over and over and _over_ again until you’re sure that you can feel your heart cracking wider and wider with each word.

       You’re not sure how many steps it takes to reach him but it feels like no time at all passes before you fall to your knees in front of him. You take his wrists and gently pry them away from his face and press kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, every inch of skin you can manage until you can’t tell if your face is damp with your own tears or his. “I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. And I promise, I _promise_ , I didn’t--we didn’t--he and I, we, we--”

       “I know.” Geoff nods and winds his arms around you to draw you closer. “I’m sorry,” he says again, placing a soft kiss against your collarbone, “I should have listened to you.” He holds you like that for a long time, murmuring faint apologies and words you can’t quite hear against your skin. Eventually he lets you go and leans back to wipe under his eyes with the back of his hand. He huffs and glowers at the bottle of liquor on the ground, kicking it over and watching disinterestedly as the amber liquid soaks into the carpet. “I’ve gotta quit that shit.”

       You pull your bottom lip between your teeth nervously, slumping down between his legs and resting your face on his thigh. “Can we talk about this deal?”

       “No.”

       You’re honestly surprised, maybe even shocked, and you show as much when you lean back to stare up at him with wide eyes.

       He makes a noise, a cross between irritation and exasperation, and suddenly moves his leg around you so that he can stand.

       You don’t move from your spot, don’t even turn to look at him.

       “He won’t stop if we don’t play by his rules,” Geoff reasons.

       “We can just ignore him--”

       “He _won’t_ stop! He doesn’t care if we ignore him, as long as you’re here and you’re with me, he’ll make both of our lives hell!”

       “But--!”

       “What happened after the heist, (y/n)?” he asks, surprisingly calm. “How did you get those bruises on your thighs?”

       You flush, clutching your leg over the marks Ryan had left with his teeth, feeling fresh pain spread through your body as you press your fingers harder against the tender wounds. “I told you, I didn’t--”

       “Maybe _you_ didn’t, but what did _he_ do?! That’s the point, (y/n)! That’s the point to this stupid fucking deal!”

       You flinch when he raises his voice but you know he’s right; Ryan is so much bigger and so much stronger than you, and he’s made it increasingly clear that he’ll use that to his advantage against you. How are you supposed to casually carry on with everyday life with Geoff when you have to worry about a madman potentially waiting for you at every corner? But you can’t just accept it, you can’t accept that they’re playing a their little game and treating you like a prize--you can’t. “So run away with me,” you whisper. “Let’s run away from Ryan, and from Los Santos, and from this whole stupid, stupid life of crime, we can just drive and, and--”

       “We can’t.” He shakes his head and a grim expression falls over his features, “We can’t.”

       You know it’s asking a lot, that you’re asking him to leave his crew, his **friends** , behind. You know it isn’t fair to ask, that you’d say no too if you were in his position, but you’ve always been stubborn so you argue with him. You argue with him until your throat is raw--you beg him to call off the bet, to forget about Ryan, to forget all of the shit that’s happened over the past few days and just be with you because you’ll never, never, _never_ go anywhere near Ryan ever again.

       Geoff doesn’t listen--he’s so fucking stubborn, just like you, but also smart and reasonable and everything you’re not--and he tells you that Ryan won’t stop until things are settled his way (“ _he’s delusional_ ,” he says. “ _Common sense won’t stop him when he’s on a fucking warpath like this_ ”). He assures you that he doesn’t like it either and he hugs you tight when you start to cry again; he holds you close and whispers gentle words into your ear and kisses your forehead until you calm down enough to breathe normally again. “I think you should stay somewhere else for awhile,” he says eventually.

       You reel back from him. “What? What are you talking about?”

       “Just until we catch that son-of-a-bitch Tinkerbell,” he assures. “It’ll be safer if you’re not here while we hunt him down.”

       The sheer amount of thoughts that run through your head is enough to cause a headache to bloom in your temples--why is he kicking you out? Have you done something wrong? Has he not forgiven you for the heist after all? Did you not play your role of victim well enough to warrant you joining them on their next heist? Did he honestly expect you to just idly sit by while they tried to find Tinkerbell? Was he taking this ‘deal’ so seriously that you’re not even allowed to help anymore? Why does he care so much about following Ryan’s rules?

       Geoff places a hand on your cheek reassuringly. “Please trust me,” he says, then sways just slightly and makes some sort of pained noise. He steadies himself by bending to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “I feel like shit,” he mutters. “Look, this deal means I need to focus on finding Tinkerbell as soon as I can and--”

       “What? I’ll be in the way?”

       He rubs his hand over his face with a sigh. “It’s going to be _dangerous_ , (y/n). I don’t want you getting hurt more than you already have.”

       “Well I don’t want to sit around and let you fight my battles for me.”

       “I’m not trying to fight your battles, I just--”

       “No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. I appreciate the concern, and I can’t thank you enough for saving me, but don’t forget that I was taking care of myself out there long before I met you or Ryan. I don’t need anyone to treat me like a damsel in distress.”

       “Tinkerbell is a huge name in Los Santos and he has a fuck-load of connections, you know that. You’re one person. It would be suicide to go after him alone.”

       Your eyebrows draw down--you never said anything about going alone. “What are you saying?”

       He sighs again, then suddenly stands a little straighter and grips your shoulders with both hands. “I can’t have you getting hurt, and I can’t risk fucking plans up because I’m worried about Ryan blowing everything off to go after you.”

       “Well I’m sorry that I’m such a _distraction_ for you, Geoff, really.”

       His eyes narrow, “You fuckin’ know that’s not what I mean. You may have taken care of yourself before, but _you_ don’t forget that you went out alone last time and got caught because you didn’t think everything through carefully enough. Tinkerbell is goddamn smart as dicks and I can’t afford to make that same mistake.”

       You feel fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t--so, you’re just putting me on house arrest? You think that, that me being there will ruin things? That--you think, you don’t think I can protect myself? You just want me to, to sit by while you and Ryan _compete_ for me like spoiled fucking kids?!”

       Geoff frowns and squeezes your shoulders in an attempt to comfort you but when he turns his head to press a kiss to your neck you jump away from him like he’s the plague. His expression hardens. “I can’t let you help us.”

       “You can’t or you won’t?”

       “I won’t.” He takes a breath and then it’s there, clear as day on his face even though he’s still edging on drunk from the booze--he’s in boss-mode now. “I know a safe place for you to stay while we look for him.”

       You swallow down your sadness and the words that you want to say to him because you know that none of it will matter now that he’s made up his mind. “Don’t worry about it,” you wave him off, cursing the quiver in your voice. “After all, I wouldn’t want to _distract_ you from the hugely important task at hand and risk you getting caught.” You think he calls your name but you’re not listening--you’re backing up, heading towards the door. You stumble over the chair you forgot you placed there and push it aside angrily once you realize what it is. “Feel free to call me and come claim your _prize_ when you finish this shit.” He definitely calls your name this time, it sounds sad and urgent but it’s dull in your ears.

       You slam the door and run as fast as your legs will carry you.

 

       You spend the next few--days? _weeks?_ You’ve lost track of time for the first time since you were kidnapped--alone at your workplace. Geoff tries to call you a few times during the first couple of days but he must catch on because after that he doesn’t try to contact you at all. And that’s good for him, that’s _great_ for him actually, because he must be **so** busy trying to find Tinkerbell and he doesn’t have time for you anyway.

       You scold yourself every time you catch yourself thinking that way because Geoff has never done anything but what he believes is best for you and this must be one of those times, right? He wouldn’t have been so mean if he didn’t need to be, right? (But then thoughts of Ryan seep into your memories and you’re reminded that some people are just mean for _fun_ , or treat people kindly just to get into their pants, or make people care about them just to turn out to be an _actual psychopath_ ).

       You miss Geoff so goddamn much but he made it clear that you can’t help his crew, and you’re still so pissed off about it that you forget why you miss him just as soon as you start missing him.

       Jack tries calling too--every day, twice a day--but you don’t answer because she holds the ability to calm you down (she always manages to no matter the situation) and right now you just need to be left alone with your anger. Hell, you even get a few intermittent calls from Michael and Ray, and one lovely voicemail from Gavin telling you that he misses having someone around who’s worse at video-games than he is and that you should hurry back home soon; his use of the word _home_ is enough to make you break down all over again.

       You try to keep up-to-date as well as you can on the Fake AH Crew, because, as much as you’re angry with their leader for not letting you help, you’re still worried about them. Geoff was putting it lightly when he said Tinkerbell has a fuck-load of connections, and as infamous as the Fake AH Crew is, their size is nothing in comparison to the amount of men Tinkerbell must have surrounding the city. As far as you can tell based on police reports, the Fakes continued their plans on taking out the parts of the city that Tinkerbell owned (and no one had gotten hurt according to any of the reports, thank goodness). You have an itch to go out on your own and try to find the man but you know that it’s stupid, that you’ll never be able to get even close to him on your own, and the thought that you could possibly get kidnapped by him again keeps you rooted to your spot.

       One night (it’s been...two weeks, maybe?) you’re trying to sleep but your shitty mattress is so damn uncomfortable that you’ve just been rolling around trying to find a soft spot for hours. The cheap alarm clock on the makeshift nightstand beside you glares the time at you in bright, angry, red lights--it’s nearly three in the morning. You’re two seconds from saying fuck it and sleeping on the floor tonight when you suddenly hear a firm knock on the door.

       You’re so startled by the noise that you fall off your shitty mattress and land on the floor with a loud ‘oomph’. You think for a second that maybe someone had just knocked on the wrong door but then there’s another knock and your heart-rate spikes. Who the fuck could possibly be outside? You crawl closer to the door but as you get closer you hear someone fumbling with the doorknob and then--wait, _why the fuck_ did it sound like someone just slid a key into the keyhole?

       You don’t have time to think about it for very long because the lock clicks and the door swings open and then you’re sitting on your floor, wearing nearly nothing but a ratty comforter around your shoulders, staring up at the dark silhouette of a man. You scuttle across the floor, looking desperately for anything you can attack the man with that isn’t stored away in your safe, but then the light flips on and you nearly scream--not because you’re scared but because you are fucking **pissed**. “What the fuck, Ryan?!”

       Ryan kicks the door shut and then tugs his mask off his face. He’s grinning down at you. “Well this is a pleasant surprise,” he says. “I thought you would be asleep, not spread out all pretty like this.”

       When you see him eye the length of your naked legs and torso appreciatively you quickly pull your blanket tightly around yourself. “What the fuck are you doing here?” you ask. “And why in the _hell_ do you have a key?”

       “Oh, I convinced your landlord a while ago that I’m your husband and that I lost the key. He’s a pretty gullible guy, (y/n), that’s not a very good thing for you.”

       You glare and rise to your feet--you’d smack him if you didn’t need to hold the blanket up. “I never should have brought you here,” you say, then hold your hand out for the key.

       He drops it into your hand without a word, confusing you--you thought he would put up more of a fight. “I’ll just have him make another one for me,” he says cockily once he notices your expression. “He thinks we’re perfect for each other, you know.”

       “Why are you here?”

       “I have a gift for you.”

       You raise a suspicious eyebrow.

       “I can bring it in now if you want, but I think you might want to change into something a little more comfortable first.”

       “Stop fucking around.”

       He shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turns and opens the door and disappears, leaving you with growing confusion (and a tiny bit of curiosity).

       You can’t believe he has a key to your workspace. You’re going to have to change the lock, or, better yet, just move all your stuff somewhere else; somewhere with a better mattress. He’s gone for so long that you actually begin to get impatient, tapping your foot and shifting your weight from one leg to another. You finally decide that, if he’s going to take forever, you might as well just change rather than holding another conversation with him wrapped in a blanket. You make your way to your suitcase, drop the blanket, and you’re just about to pull on an oversized t-shirt when the door opens again.

       Ryan gives a low whistle.

       You tug the shirt down quickly and don’t even bother with pants, just spin around to reprimand him for being such a fucking asshole, but your breath catches in your throat when you see what exactly your ‘gift’ is.

       “Well?” Ryan drawls. “Do you like it?”

       You take a step closer, forgetting entirely about your attire and about the fact that Ryan has a key to your workplace and about your anger towards Geoff. All the anger and tension bleeds out of your body and is replaced with a strange sort of euphoria and excitement that you haven’t felt in a long time. Your stomach churns in a way that reminds you of a drop on a roller-coaster-- _thrilling_ \--when Ryan places his foot on the back of the man who’s kneeling on the floor beside him, tied and beaten, and kicks him towards you.

       You step closer still, until you’re close enough to kneel down next to the man. You run your fingers (that had been broken and bloody) through his hair, grip hard, and lift his face up to get a good look at him.

       A wide grin nearly splits your face in two and your stomach flips when Ryan chuckles delightedly.

       It’s not Tinkerbell but _holy shit_ , this might honestly be better.

       “Hi,” you whisper. “Do you remember me?”

       The man looks up at you for the first time through blackening eyes and the face that he makes is nearly _comical_ with how fucking scared he looks.

       “That’s right,” you laugh. “It’s been a while hasn’t it, _goon two?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a while! My deepest apologies for the late update, I've been absolutely swamped lately and haven't had much time to write. But I sat down today and banged out this chapter for you because you all deserve it.
> 
> The support that I continue to receive on this story is honestly amazing and I cannot say thank you enough to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, leaves comments, anything. I'm just so happy with how well this has been received by everyone. 
> 
> I promise I'll try harder to get updates out faster for all of you <3


	20. My Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goon two shows his true colors.
> 
> WARNING: slight, slight torture

       You never would have pegged Ryan as the humming type, but there he is, sitting beside you in the driver’s seat of his car humming away--and now that you’ve heard it you can’t possibly picture him as anything _but_ the humming type. You don’t recognize the tune, but it sounds nice and calming and his voice is so **low**. You would probably have fallen asleep to the sound of his humming a while ago (you’re not sure where he’s taking you--it feels like you’ve been driving _forever_ and it’s so late already--but he said he already has a place set up so that you don’t get your workspace dirty) if it weren’t for the occasional thump that reverberates throughout the car. Every single time you hear that thump, think about goon two tied up in the trunk trying to escape, think about the number of reasons things could possibly get _dirty_ , your heart seizes with excitement.

       You don’t know what Ryan has planned but you hope it’s pain and torture and _fear_ and everything else goon two deserves for what he did to you. You hope that Ryan will take suggestions from you, maybe even let you help, but you’ll be okay--more than okay--even if he just intends to let you watch. You don’t ask him about where he’s taking you or what he has planned because you’re sure that the man bound in the trunk would be able to hear, but you can’t stop yourself from asking one thing. “Why did you bring him to me?” you ask softly.

       Ryan continues humming and, for a moment, you think that he’s just going to ignore you. “I was under the impression that you’d want me to,” he says with a shrug. He turns his head just long enough to catch your gaze. “I want Tinkerbell,” he says on a growl and then his voice immediately goes back to normal like the flip of a switch, “and I already took care of that other guy when we rescued you.” He grins at the memory, fingers visibly flexing and relaxing around the steering wheel a few times like he’s remembering how good it felt to flay goon one. “That really was my bad, honestly, he just had such a **dirty** mouth, and the way he talked about you _screaming_ …” His fingers tighten around the wheel for an entirely different reason, hard enough that the leather creaks in protest, and you reach across to place your hand against his arm in gentle reassurance before he ruins it entirely. He visibly flinches when you touch him and his eyes are fierce when he whips his head towards you, but then his vision seems to focus on you and all at once he loosens his grip, exhales a loud rush of air, and his eyes soften. “Anyway,” he says conversationally, as though that little _whatever it was_ hadn’t just happened. “Pretty sure that this guy is the only one left who hurt you, and I figured if Geoff won’t let you be a part of the fun then I’ll bring the fun to you myself.”

       You’re not sure what to say because, as fucked up as it is, you’re so fucking happy that he’s thinking of how you feel rather than pushing you away to ‘protect’ you.

       He must be able to read your expression because he chuckles lowly and his teeth show when he smiles at you.

       You settle into comfortable silence beside Ryan, watching the street-lights pass by--he eventually begins to hum again and this time you do recognize the tune and before you know it you’ve joined him; he doesn’t seem to mind the accompaniment. It takes about another hour or so before he pulls off down an unmarked street that you don’t recognize (and can barely see because all of the streetlights seem to be broken and flickering). He flips the car lights off--precautionary, smart. The instant the car begins slowing down you hear the pounding from the trunk become more frantic and it makes goosebumps prickle across your skin.

       He pulls the car into a beat-up looking driveway in front of a tiny, beat-up looking house. He doesn’t move to get out immediately, instead he sits silently for a few minutes, occasionally checking the mirrors for any signs of activity, before turning to you. He reaches into his pocket and places a key into your palm. “Head in first,” he tells you. “I’ll be right behind you.”

       You wordlessly follow his instructions--you have too many things to say, too many things you’re feeling all at once. When you flip on the light inside the tiny building, butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, you’re a little underwhelmed. You don’t really know what you were expecting but it looks exactly like a run-down, shabby little home with barely any furniture and ancient wall-paper flaking from the walls. You take a seat on the couch while you wait and it’s even stiffer and more uncomfortable than the mattress at your workspace.

       It doesn’t take long for Ryan to drag goon two through the door. The man thrashes against his hold, against the ropes that bind him, against the gag that muffles his shouting and the blindfold that blocks his vision, but Ryan is _strong_ and holds him in place easily.

       You stand from the couch and give him a lopsided grin. “You’re not wearing your mask; I thought you would put it on.”

       “Oh, don’t worry, this one won’t have a tongue left to tell anyone what I look like by the time we’re through with him,” Ryan says with a grin of his own, leaning down to pat goon two’s cheek patronizingly.

       The action, the promise of his torture, makes your stomach drop in the best way possible. You watch as he easily (like, **easily** , it’s fucking-- _incredibly_ \--hot to watch) drags goon two across the floor towards a shut door on the left side of the house. You follow behind slowly, gaze fixating on goon two when you realize that not only is he struggling but he’s _shaking_ ; it’s mesmerizing to watch and you can’t help but kneel down and trace the quivering muscles in his arms with the tip of your finger. He tries to flinch away but when he does you dig your nails into his arm hard enough to draw blood and that makes him stop real fast. You can feel Ryan’s gaze on you and it only spurs you to trace more of those shaking muscles, dig your nails in a little harder (just for the fun of it) so that goon two cries out.

       He reaches down and pets his fingers through your hair affectionately. “Just wait,” he speaks in a low tone, “the fun hasn’t even started yet.” He reaches into his pocket once more, pulls out another key, and you gasp aloud when the door swings open.

       The room is immaculate, white, and smells faintly of bleach. It’s clean, with perfectly organized cabinets and counters and tools, and a singular chair sits at the center of it all like a goddamn throne. You stand up and step into the pristine space and immediately begin laughing because, _holy shit_ , this is really happening.

       Ryan laughs along with you as he drags the man into the room and sits him down in the chair. You watch, fascinated, as he walks to one of the counters and grabs a large amount of heavy-looking rope and then begins tying goon two to the chair with the most intricate looking knots you’ve ever seen. Once he’s satisfied with his work he walks to the door and shuts it, then gives you a nod.

       You move, maybe faster than you’re ever moved, and rip the blindfold away from goon two’s face. “Hello,” you chime in greeting as he begins rapidly blinking to adjust to the bright, fluorescent lights in the room. When he pinches his eyes shut you’re quick to grab his face with both hands and pry his eyes open forcibly with your fingers. “Oh, no, no, no, none of that now,” you tell him on a giggle. “I want you to see _all_ of this.”

       “If he shuts them again we could always cut off his eyelids,” Ryan suggests casually.

       Goon two immediately begins shouting muffled words at you through his gag and thrashes almost hard enough to knock the chair, and himself, over.

       You expect Ryan to laugh but instead he’s beginning to look bored. Your eyes follow him as he stalks to the side of the room, his gaze never straying from goon two’s petrified expression. You see him reach for something on the counter--you don’t quite catch what it is but you see it glint in the light and your throat constricts in anticipation. He moves forward slowly, gracefully, fluidly--a true apex predator quietly approaching his prey. You gasp out loud accidentally when he turns suddenly towards you and pins you with a steely stare; you had been so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t expected his change of pace. He walks up to you until he’s so close that you almost have to crane your neck to look up at him; he looks so calm, confident, completely in his element in this little white room and it’s so _good_ , such a stark contrast to the nervous jitters speeding across every fiber of your being that you feel light-headed.

       He reaches forward, places his hand on your waist and squeezes gently.

       His palm is so warm, even through the fabric of your shirt, and you subconsciously lean towards that warmth; when you do he smirks down at you and his eyes glint deviously and-- _fuck_ \--it’s heady, **intoxicating** , to be so close to him knowing that he’ll use his hands, the same hand that burns against your waist, to make goon two suffer. You’re so caught up in the thrill of it all that you don’t notice the hand leave your waist to circle around your wrist. You have to blink a few times, adjust your eyes to focus on something _not-Ryan’s-face_ for the first time in--how many minutes have gone by? Five? Ten? Maybe even fifteen? You’re not sure, and you don’t dwell on it too long because the metal object in your hand is cool against your skin and when you’re finally focused enough to look down at it you see that you’re holding a small knife.

       It’s clean, just as spotless as the rest of the room, with a stainless-steel handle and an edge that you just  _know_ has been recently sharpened. You grip the weapon and look up at Ryan with wide, confused eyes.

       He slowly raises an eyebrow.

       “I--I...um--” you stammer over your question. “Do you, uh, do you want me to…?”

       His face splits into a positively delighted grin. “Are you _scared?_ ”

       You square your shoulders and will the stutter from your voice because **hell no** you’re not scared, you’re fucking ecstatic. You had hoped you could help but you were never expecting Ryan to hand the ropes over so easily. “No,” you say, tongue flitting out to dampen your lower lip. “I’m not scared.”

       He raises a hand to your cheek, “Good.” He turns back towards goon two and walks until he stands right in front of him. He rips the gag away from the man’s mouth and only smiles when the room is filled with screams and cries for help.

       Ryan looks like he’s about to say something but you stop him when you take a step forward, thread your fingers through goon two’s ratty hair, and yank his head back **hard**. “Do you remember when I screamed for you to stop?” you ask, your voice venomous. “Do you remember what you and your little friend did when I cried out for help?”

       Goon two whimpers, eyes glossy like he’s about to cry. Even still, even though he sits before you helpless, pathetic, he does his best to give you a glare. “Oh, I remember you alright, you dumb bitch,” he speaks, voice shaky and cracking.

       “Watch it,” Ryan warns behind you.

       You simply hum and smile sweetly down at the bound man. “You’re as charming as ever,” you note. “Tell me, did you ever return to that hell-hole where you kept me locked up so long? Ever go searching for our good friend goon one?”

       Goon two’s expression seems to falter a bit at that, bits of his arrogant demeanor falling away to reveal more of that underlying fear. He stays silent but his lips quiver.

       “I really hope you didn’t,” you say in mock concern. You release his head and step around him, twirling the knife purposefully between your fingers. “After all, my friend here didn’t leave a lot of him to be found.” Your keen gaze follows the movement of his throat as he swallows thickly. “Listen,” you say softly, kindly, sugary-sweet as you lean forward and press the flat of the blade against his cheekbone. “I’m going to need you to tell us where Tinkerbell is.”

       He has the audacity to scoff and he hardly winces when the action causes the knife to cut into his skin, a red rivulet of blood running slowly down his face. “Sorry, sweetheart, but he’s _much_ fuckin’ scarier than you are. How about you let me go now and instead of bringing you and your worthless, sack of shit boyfriend’s bodies back to him I’ll just leave?”

       You stand straight, turn your back to goon two, and push the knife back into Ryan’s hand. As you move to search the room for what you need you hear goon two’s gravelly voice calling out at you.

       “Oi, is that really it?! You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! You’re really just as pathetic now as you were then, aren’t ya?!”

       “You’ve got a really big mouth, you know that?” you mutter. You finally find what you need and you can’t help the excited giggle when you grab it from one of the cabinets. “Oh, babe?” you ask in a sing-song tone, because you’re going to play up the casualty, the nonchalance in the face of his torture, as much as you can; you want him to know that you’re going to _hurt_ him and that you could _care less_ how scared he is.

       “Yes, hun?” Ryan asks, his reply seamless, perfect, and when you glance over you see goon two’s eyes flitting nervously between the two of you. Perfect.

       You keep the cabinet door open, in front of what you’ve found, so that goon two won’t be able to see it, and you relish in the way he desperately cranes his neck to try to see what you have in store for him. “Would you give me a hand with something, please?”

       Ryan makes his way to you slowly and he gives you a puzzled look when he sees the large bucket you’ve pulled from the cabinet.

       “If you wouldn’t mind,” you say, rising to your full height, “I’m feeling a little thirsty.”

       His eyes flash and a smile of understanding curls the corners of his lips up. “Of course.”

       “Thank you,” you say quietly, and just for effect you lean up and kiss his cheek. You turn to face goon two and kick the cabinet door shut; you watch every emotion that crosses his face as he sees Ryan lifting the bucket, as what’s about to happen seems to process in his mind.

       “W-Wait!” he yells. “I, I really--honestly, I _don’t know_ where he is!”

       Whatever expression you have on your face drops and you stare at the pleading man coldly--he isn’t really giving up _already_ , is he? And after all that big talk? “I think you do know,” you say to him flatly, stomach flipping as Ryan turns on the faucet and the sound of running water rushes to your ears. “I think you’re lying to me.”

       His eyes widen at the sound of water hitting the inside of the bucket. “No, no, no, I promise, I don’t know!”

       You see him trying to look over your shoulder at Ryan so you snatch him by the jaw and force his eyes back to your own. “No,” you wave a finger in front of his face scoldingly. “He’s not who you need to be worrying about right now.” You just barely catch the flicker of defiance in his eyes before he bashes his forehead into yours hard enough that you stumble backwards.

       He laughs triumphantly but there’s something off about it--he’s trying so hard to sound like he’s in control, the poor thing. It’s cute.

       The loud sound of plastic hitting metal fills the room as Ryan suddenly drops the bucket with a low growl. “You’ll regret that,” he hisses between his teeth.

       You raise your hand to stop him when he lifts a foot to step forward. “I’m fine,” you assure.

       Goon two laughs another loud, strained laugh. “You stupid bitch!” he shouts. “You’re still so fucking pathetic!” (You’re starting to believe he doesn’t have a vocabulary large enough to come up with any other insults). His gaze flicks to Ryan briefly--you’re sure that he’s watching to make sure that he doesn’t move, **scared** at the thought of what will happen if he does. He must be dumber than he looks because what he says next is positively insane. “I can’t believe someone like _you_ is so pussy-whipped,” he says, and, you have to admit, he has guts because he looks right at Ryan when he says it. “Stopping at her every command like that.” He scoffs and then turns his attention to you. “Do you ever get tired of a man who bends over for you so easily?”

       You raise an eyebrow at the expectant looks he gives you--you doubt he even knows what he’s saying anymore, he’s so visibly frightened, but you’re interested to see where it’ll go. The idea that he could potentially piss off Ryan bad enough that he _won’t_ stop when you tell him to is tantalizing enough to make an excited flush rise to your cheeks.

       Goon two lowers his voice to a whisper meant only for you. “How about you let me go and I’ll show you what a real man is like?”

       He’s lost his goddamn mind, you’re sure of it now--he’s literally grasping at straws trying to find a way out of it, and the fact that he’s convinced himself that a ploy like this could actually work makes you want to laugh more than you’ve ever wanted to. “I don’t know,” you mumble, keeping your voice low and sultry. You step forward until your breath fans across his ear when you speak. “He’s a pretty good lay, you know.”

       He barely contains the shake in his voice. “I can do better, I promise.”

       You hum thoughtfully, leaning from side to side like you’re weighing your options--it works wonderfully, he doesn’t notice when you lift the cloth that had once been tied around his eyes off the floor. With a feigned, shy smile you slide yourself into his lap, legs straddling his, your arms falling around his shoulders.

       He sucks in a shocked breath but quickly covers it with a disgustingly smug smirk. “I knew you’d come around, baby,” he chuckles, and your mind buzzes pleasantly with the idea that he’s actually feeling _relieved_. “Now how about you go ahead and start loosening these ropes a bit?”

       “You know,” you lean in closer, nearly pressing your nose to his, “you’re pretty fucking stupid when you’re scared out of your mind.” You don’t give him time to react as you tug the cloth over his mouth and hold it tightly.

       Ryan, who had moved while the imbecile of a man was distracted with how apparently well his plan was working, pours the bucket of water over his face, **slowly**.

       You clamp your thighs around goon two’s as he begins to struggle beneath you; you hear him sputter and cough and you remember so vividly the burning of the water pouring into your lungs but it doesn’t scare you now, even as the water sloshes over your front and soaks your clothes. In fact, you start laughing at the irony of it all. Once the water is spilled all over the floor you release the man’s mouth and stand. “I can’t believe you’d think someone so _weak_ and _stupid_ would be good enough for me,” you say with a cruel laugh. “I can’t believe you’d even **try** to compare yourself to,” you gesture up and down Ryan’s body, “ _that_.”

       “Wow, you’re going to make me blush,” Ryan says, light and playful, but when you look up the look he’s giving you is anything _but_ playful.

       You choke down a gasp when you see how bright his eyes are, how they bore into you, how warm his gaze makes you feel. The sounds of goon two choking and sputtering up the water that had just been forced down his throat fades into nothing in your ears.

       Ryan steps close to you and his palm finds your waist again, but this time his fingers dip under your soaking shirt and find your bare skin underneath. “It doesn’t sound like he’s going to give us anything,” he says. “At least, not yet.”

       You swallow the lump in your throat. “Well, we can’t have that.”

       “How many times did they do this to you?” he asks, raising the empty bucket in his hand questioningly, his fingers tightening possessively against your hip.

       “I lost count.”

       He scowls, the light in his eyes dying-- _Vagabond_ , your mind whispers at you in warning--as he looks over at goon two, who is breathing raggedly and shouting insults at you that you’re both ignoring.

       You reach up and touch the sharp line of his jaw with your fingertips. You’re already grinning, wide and feral, even before his attention is drawn back to you. “Let’s do it again,” you whisper excitedly--you feel _alive_ with the desire to hear goon two struggle against the water in his lungs, with the desire to hurt, to cut, to burn, to **destroy**.

       He hums low and the seriousness suddenly leaves his expression. His eyes light back up and he makes a sound close to a groan in the back of his throat. He squeezes your hip tight and it feels natural to be so close to him, natural when his nails bite into your skin. “That’s my girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this, I loooved it. Our poor reader is so confused, man. Playing with her emotions is too good to resist--Ryan just has that effect on people, I think.
> 
> (Also, if you notice any errors, let me know? I haven't had a lot of time to edit)


	21. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You damn near lose your mind, and your friend.

       You look at the splendid array of goodies in front of you with a smile that could rival a hyena’s. You let your fingers ghost over the shiny metal, the dangerously sharp edges of blades and scalpels, the tight leather of whips and gags, and the ragged edges of pliers; your fingers linger over the metal rods and twisted metal shapes placed purposefully before you-- _brands_ \--but you have a feeling it won’t be as satisfying if you use the same methods that they had on you. At least, not anymore.

       You’re honestly surprised you hadn’t flooded the room with the amount of water you’d poured over goon two’s face. Ryan hadn’t even given him a chance to speak between coughing fits, instead simply snapping his head backwards and emptying more water into his lungs--and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t loved every single, horrible second of it. The once spotless, white floor is now stained with a colorful mixture of saliva, vomit, and traces of blood from his violent coughing fits, and the smell of bleach that once permeated the air is now tainted with the stench of bile; you grin wider just thinking about it.

       Ryan stands behind you, watching over your shoulder as you survey the tools he’s provided; his arms are snug around your waist and he hums low into your ear (you’re grateful for that because goon two is still throwing insults your way, albeit much weaker now, and occasionally suffering through more coughing fits). “What do you think?” Ryan asks, his voice rumbling through his chest and against your back.

       You contemplate the pliers, entertaining the thought of the man who subjected you to such awful torture with a few less fingernails or perhaps a smile lacking some teeth, but it isn’t enough. You contemplate the knives, the thought of cutting into him slow and watching him bleed, but it isn’t enough. Your gaze fixes on the scalpel, mind supplying lovely images of goon one and Ryan’s calculated expression as he peeled away piece after piece of skin--you had been such a mess at the time that you hadn’t really gotten to _enjoy_ the sight the way you wanted to. Your fingers delicately lift the instrument and Ryan’s arms tighten around you a little bit. You touch the edge of the scalpel, press your finger hard enough that the metal bites into your flesh and a warm droplet of blood surfaces around the blade--it’s so _sharp_. “This,” you say breathlessly. You grab his hand, wrap your fingers around his and lift his arm away from your waist so that you can press the scalpel into his palm. “Teach me.”

       His chest rumbles again with an appreciative groan. “Are you sure?”

       “Yes.”

       He presses a soft but searing kiss to the side of your neck, just a brief moment, and then his warmth is gone from around you as he turns towards goon two.

       You release a shuddering breath, watching the drop of your own blood spill between your fingers. Why had you _cut_ yourself ( _why had it felt good_ )? You raise your hand to your neck, over the skin that’s still tingling from his kiss. Why are you so okay with how often Ryan has touched you since entering this room? You turn your head, just a little, just enough to see the look on Ryan’s face as he approaches goon two with the scalpel, and you’re mortified when a hot throb of want races between your legs. Why in the ever-living hell are you getting _turned on?_

       You need to leave, quickly--you’re clearly not in your right mind and you have a sinking feeling you’re going to do something stupid (stupider than what you’ve already done) soon if you don’t get out of this room _right now_ \--but then you hear a scream, shrill and piercing, and when you instinctively turn to see where the sound came from you feel a pleasant warmth wash from your head straight to your toes.

       Goon two is still lying on his side, tied to the chair (he had fallen over during one of his bouts of coughing and you’d elected just to leave him there because, at some point, you had grown bored with watching the water gush over his face and into his mouth and decided it was time to change things up); his face is smeared with his own bodily fluids and his eyes are wide and panicked as he cries out hysterically. Ryan is knelt beside him with a small piece of goon two’s skin held between his fingers--it’s a piece from his finger, and goon two is struggling more than ever to get his wrists free from the bindings.

       “It’s always the hardest to get it started,” the Vagabond states conversationally. He lowers the scalpel to the same wound he had just created and pulls the blade through another slice of skin like a knife through butter, not even blinking at the howls of pain from the man whose finger is starting to look more like a melting red crayon. “It took me such a long time to figure out how to keep the cut shallow enough that it wouldn’t sever tendon.” The Vagabond gives a low chuckle, “If you start cutting into important stuff like that they go into shock so much faster.” Another slice, from the side of his finger this time. “The weak ones usually die within minutes after that.”  His bright eyes wander from the flesh he’s holding to meet your stare, and he motions you forward with a tilt of his head.

       It’s powerful, like an invisible force drawing you forward, like you’re a puppet and he’s the puppet-master, pulling your strings with practiced ease. Your feet carry you forward until you’re standing right beside him, looking down at goon two, the man who had caused you more pain than you ever deserved ( _and he had enjoyed it_ , you remind yourself).

       He looks petrified, tears leaking down his cheeks and creating ruddy streaks in the blood and bile that has begun to dry against his face. His mangled, bloodied fingers twitch when he notices you. “Please,” he rasps, “please don’t do this, I-I’m begging you, _please_.” He draws in a ragged, wet breath. “I know,” he voice quivers so hard he has to pause, “I know what I--what _we_ did to you was, was--was **so** wrong, but I swear, I _swear_ , I don’t, I honestly d-don’t know where Tinkerbell is, please.”

       If you felt any sense of sympathy at all it evaporates the instant he implies that he’s aware of how wrong it was what they did to you--he has **no** idea, he doesn’t suffer the sleepless nights or nightmares, he doesn’t have scars that remind him of his pain and helplessness every day, the panic attacks and the ever present fear of something so terrible ever happening again. He has absolutely no idea. You crouch down beside him and caress his cheek with your fingertips. “Then you’re useless to us,” you say coldly. You take the scalpel from Ryan’s hand and lift it to goon two’s lips threateningly.

       He goes bug-eyed and shouts a desperate, “Wait!” When you pause he starts babbling, nearly incoherent between the sobs that wrack his body. “I don’t know w-where he is, but I know some of the building he owns, I, I--he owns, they’re _marked_ ,” he chokes out. “He m-marks them so others, so that they know not to mess with them--but, it’s, I mean--it’s small, y’know, inconspicuous, so you, you don’t know where to look if you don’t know what you’re, uh, what you’re looking for.”

       “Get on with it,” Ryan spits.

       Goon two flinches so violently that the chair he’s tied to rattles against the floor. “The doorframes,” he says quietly, “on the l-left side, if you use a, a blacklight you’ll find a little--a little fairy.”

       “Like the one he branded me with?” you ask icily.

       He nods meekly.

       Your eyes narrow, “If that’s all you know, you’re still useless to us.” You grab his lower lip and tug it down to expose uneven teeth but he’s quick to start pleading again.

       “Wait, wait, don’t!” he begs, words slurred around your fingers. “I--I may not know where, where Tinkerbell is, b-but Cobra--!”

       You withdraw from him slowly; you had almost entirely forgotten about the man who had set you up. “Where is he?” you demand. Goon two is a weak man, much weaker than you initially thought--he spills the information easily (if you call nearly drowning for almost an hour and losing the skin on one of your fingers easy--you do, coincidentally, considering what all you went through before giving up what you knew). You memorize the address his gives you for Cobra’s whereabouts, then turn to face Ryan. “I don’t think he knows where Tinkerbell is.”

       “Smart of him not to tell someone as loose-lipped as this idiot,” Ryan agrees.

       You hum, contemplative. “Well then,” you say after an agonizingly long couple of minutes pass. “He’s still useless, then, isn’t he?” You don’t have time to hear goon two screaming in protest before you force your fingers between his teeth to grab his tongue, warm and wet with thick saliva and blood, the feeling foreign against your fingers; he doesn’t have time to react before you drag the scalpel cleanly through the organ, severing it completely. He sputters and blood splatters against your throat and chest but you don’t care. You throw the bloody appendage to the side and rise to your feet as goon two screams and gurgles around the blood that’s now pooling in his mouth and drowning him in place of water.

       Ryan’s touch is electric against your arm. “What would you like me to do with him?” he asks.

       You push your hair out of your eyes, accidentally smearing goon two’s blood along your face as you do. “He’s weak,” you say, monotonous, and if you were in your right mind you might recognize how eerily similar your tone is to the Vagabond’s. “He’ll die of shock soon anyway.” You wipe the remaining blood from your hands onto your legs. “Finish what you started before he passes out,” you say, tossing him the scalpel.

       Ryan catches it easily. “I’d be happy to,” he says, giving you a wink.

       You feel another throb of _something_ (you know exactly what it is but you’re not going to call it that anymore because that means you’re admitting to it and no, no, **no** , you’re not about to do that) so you pointedly turn away and make for the door; he doesn’t try to stop you. You shut the door behind you, engulfing yourself in the darkness of the tiny apartment on the other side, just as the screams--if you can call them that around the choking--start. You blindly follow the wall until you find the lightswitch; the light is so dim compared to the white room that you’re not even sure it’s worth it.

       You sigh, taking a seat on the little couch and letting your head lull back as you listen to the screams, muffled nearly to silence through the wall. Part of you wants to go back, to watch, to _learn_ , just as you had requested--you feel so relaxed, your head pleasingly fuzzy in a way that reminds you of your younger days (when you would have done more than simply laugh at all of Ray’s pot-smoking jokes)--but a larger part of you is scared by how good you feel. You want him to suffer for what he did to you, just like you wanted goon one to suffer, and like you want Cobra and Tinkerbell to suffer, but you feel like you’re losing yourself to revenge and madness and, even though it’s positively _euphoric_ , you can still remember vividly the time when even a simple assassination job made your stomach clench uncomfortably. The thought of putting a bullet through someone’s head doesn’t even begin to phase you now--you want to contribute that to the fact that you’ve done it enough at this point, but there’s a large, blonde man with incredible blue eyes in the next room over who would claim otherwise (and be completely correct).

       But you’re done with him, because you’re better than his lies, and you’re better than his shitty, possessive behavior and his treating you like an object rather than a human being, and because you made a promise to _Geoff_ \--Geoff, who you still miss **so** bad, and who you’re still angry at for not trusting your abilities when there’s a _psychopath_ (with incredible blue eyes) who believes so adamantly in you when it comes to matters such as torture and killing and taking care of yourself up against the big guns.

       You rake your hand through your hair aggravatedly, your fingers getting caught in tangles stained with blood. You pull your phone from your pocket, ready to bury yourself in the internet as a distraction until Ryan is finished, and you’re surprised to find that you have nearly fifteen missed calls, a few from Jack but most from Geoff. You frown, because the last time he tried to call you was weeks ago, right after (he had kicked you out) you had stormed out. You unlock your phone to call back, a seed of worry settling heavily in your stomach, when a loud buzzing to your right interrupts you. You have absolutely no idea when he set it there, but Ryan’s phone is lit and vibrating on the end-table beside you, the word ‘BOSS’ illuminating the screen in white letters. You almost pick it up, but decide that it would be pretty damning if you did (even though you haven’t done anyth-- _much_ ). When his phone finally stops buzzing you see that Ryan has almost thirty missed calls from various members of the crew and the seed of worry erupts into something much larger.

       You have Geoff’s number dialed on your own phone in seconds. You don’t even have time to listen to the first ring before he picks up.

       “Where are you?!” his voice is pitched with distress and anger and something that sounds close to relief. “Where’s Ryan?!”

       You frown at the implication that the two of you are together despite the fact that you are. “What are you talking about?” you opt for innocence, but you have a sinking feeling that whatever is going on is going to force you to spill the beans.

       “Are you with him, (y/n)?!” he demands. “A heist went wrong and Michael got shot--he’s fuckin’, he’s in critical condition and I can’t fuckin’ get ahold of Ryan!”

       Your breath catches sharply and tears immediately build in your eyes. “Is he--will he be okay?” you ask around the tightness in your throat. You don’t understand, how could Michael get shot? Why was there a heist planned when Ryan isn’t with them?

       “Kerry is working his ass off but right now we don’t know,” he answers honestly, and the voice crack is so familiar and tragic that you accidentally let loose a pitiful sounding sob. “Get here, soon, and bring Ryan if you know where he is,” Geoff says in a voice that’s more remnant of his boss-tone, but still weaved with palpable worry.

       You decide to continue playing innocent, because the last thing that Geoff needs on his plate right now is the knowledge that you and Ryan have been together the entire time he’s been trying to contact both of you. “I’ll try to get ahold of--”

       The door to the white room is thrown open and Ryan steps out, shirt, jeans, and face stained red with blood. You catch a quick glimpse of an unrecognizable, bloody, red mass that was once a human being on the floor behind him but then he’s barreling towards you. “He lasted longer than I thought he would,” he says, and he’s close to you, close enough that you’re sure that Geoff can hear him, but then Ryan is plucking your cell-phone from your hands, tossing it to the couch, and busying his hands with lifting you up by your thighs.

       Your head hits the wall hard enough that your vision blurs around the edges, and then all you can feel is Ryan’s body crushing against yours, his mouth hot and impatient over your own. His tongue slips between your teeth like the gap there was made for him, and he angles his sharp hips up into yours and you _feel_ his cock throb through his jeans. You grab his hair and tug in an attempt to pull him away but it only serves to make him groan low in his throat and kiss you that much harder. His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling them tighter around his waist, and you gasp your first fresh breath of air in what feels like hours when he lowers his mouth to press kisses into your collarbones. “Wait,” you breathe, “you have to wait--!”

       “I’m done waiting,” he growls against your skin.

       You grit your teeth and throw all your weight forward, tipping him off balance. His back lands hard on the ground and you make a point to ignore how good he looks beneath you, strung out, covered in blood, with his pupils blown wide. You scramble off him while he’s distracted and just barely have time to snag your phone before Ryan grabs you by the leg and pulls you back towards him with ease. You’re on your hands and knees, so when he knocks your hands out from under you your face hits the cheap, rough carpet hard; you gasp when he then takes you by the hips, forcing your ass higher into the air, and begins an insistent rhythm with his own hips against you. You don’t struggle when he tugs your pants down your legs because you’re too busy raising your phone to your ear. “Geoff?” you call his name on a gasp; Ryan immediately freezes behind you and you breathe a small sigh of relief.

       Geoff’s breathing is labored over the phone in a much different way than it had been before--before it had been shallow and nervous, and now he’s breathing in short, irritated huffs. “Get your ass in a car and get here, _now_ ,” he says angrily. “Bring him too.” He hangs up as soon as the words leave his mouth.

       You tilt your head, scrape your cheek against the shabby carpet, to look up at Ryan, and you visibly flinch when you see the Vagabond’s cold eyes staring back at you.

       “You called Geoff?” he asks slowly. “Is that why you left our little session?”

       You push yourself away from him, mildly surprised when he lets you go without a fight. “No,” you answer, wiggling your pants back into place. “He called me-- _us_ \--several times.” You abruptly stand, “Michael is in critical condition, we need to get over there, now.”

       Ryan (yes, Ryan, his eyes soften instantly at the mention of his friend’s state) practically jumps to his feet, still-bloody hands already digging through his pockets to find his keys. He makes sure to close and lock the door to the white room, close and lock the door to his little apartment, and then the two of you are in his car racing towards the Fake AH Crew’s building.

       The ride is distressingly silent; you want to talk to him about _what the fuck_ just happened, but you risk coaxing out the Vagabond again if you do, and you want to talk to him about why he wasn’t present for a heist, about Michael, but his brow is furrowed in an expression that you’ve never seen on his face before and you have a feeling he won’t speak to you about it even if you try. So you remain silent, staring at the passing street-lights and neon signs with dread boiling like a cauldron in your chest until you reach your destination.

       Geoff is waiting for you in the garage; his expression is unreadable, completely passive, even as you and Ryan step out of the car and he takes in the sight of the two of you, smeared and splattered with blood, your clothes still damp from the water. He addresses Ryan first, “Where the fuck have you been?” His voice gives him away more than his face does--he’s definitely still mad.

       “Gathering useful information,” Ryan replies cryptically, “since _you_ can’t seem to.”

       “And just how did you go about getting this information?”

       Ryan’s eyebrow arches high and he spreads his arms out wide, showing off his bloodied shirt and arms. “How do you think, Geoff? The way I know best.”

       Geoff’s eyes narrow, “And you felt the need to involve (y/n)?”

       A wicked smirk spreads across Ryan’s lips, “Oh, she loved every minute of it. I wish you could have seen just how much she enjoyed finally getting her payback, but if I had told you what I was up to you would have objected right away.” He chuckles then, low and long, “She’s a natural, y’know.”

       Geoff seems to fight the surprise on his face but can’t quite hide it.

       “Don’t worry,” Ryan drawls, “it’s not like I found Tinkerbell...just, well, a little friend of (y/n)’s, someone she became well acquainted with during her time with them.”

       The tattooed man looks like he’s growing increasingly aggravated with the obscure answers he’s receiving so he shakes his head, expression returning to a practiced neutral. “Everyone is upstairs in the main room, Kerry won’t let anyone into the medical ward until he gets him stabilized. Everyone has been worried sick about you, so I suggest you head up there--and for Christ’ sake, change your fuckin’ clothes before you go up.”

       Something like remorse passes over Ryan's features before he covers it up with his standard, smug look. “No fun, Geoff,” Ryan admonishes, but then his expression flickers into something much, much darker. He takes four long strides forward, putting himself right into Geoff’s personal space. “Why would you plan a heist without me?”

       Geoff meets his gaze evenly, not phased by his proximity at all. “We got good intel and needed to act on it tonight. You weren’t here and you weren’t answering your phone--we weren’t about to let it go to waste just because you decided to go off on your own to search out info.”

       “Well,” the blonde replies snidely, “while you went out and got one of _your_ ”--he puts such harsh emphasis on the word, cutting into Geoff with the reminder that _he’s_ the boss and that the crew and it’s members are _his_ responsibility --“crew member’s hurt, we found out how to identify every building Tinkerbell owns.” He leaves him with that, brushing by him and through the door to head upstairs towards the others.

       You fear the sadness, anger, disappointment, and nameless other emotions you’ll meet when you look up, but you chance a look into his eyes anyway and find that Geoff’s eyes are cast down and filled with tears. You rush to him, wrapping your arms around his shaking body and holding him tight as he leans heavily against you and cries. You rub his back and card your fingers through his wild hair, soothing him with gentle actions until he stops shaking. “Tell me what happened out there, Geoff,” you say softly, “please.”

       He sniffs and leans away from you to swipe at his nose with his shirt sleeve. He wordlessly takes your hand and leads you to the door, into the building, but right when you begin to worry that he’s taking you to everyone else rather than speaking with you he pulls you into some unmarked, unused room. He disappears around the corner for a moment and you’re again left with the worry that he’s avoiding you, but then he returns with a fresh shirt and pair of pants from one of the closets (certainly not your size or style but you’re grateful for them nevertheless).

       Once you’re changed you turn and find that he’s patiently waiting for you at the table. You don’t approach him, still afraid that once he’s had his moment to calm down the anger will come back. “Are you mad?” you ask meekly.

       “I’m pissed that you didn’t answer your phone, and that Ryan didn’t answer his phone,” he answers honestly, but his voice lacks any sort of edge. “I’m...thrown off that you would agree to torture someone,” --you flinch, you hadn’t thought about how it would look to anyone else that you jumped right into torture like you were born for it-- “but I guess--I understand that I was holding the leash a little tight for you, regarding the heists and, well, Ryan chose to involve you in his _information gathering_ and it seems like it paid off.” He ended the conversation with a finality that you could easily tell meant that the conversation was over--you were honestly glad, it could have gone much worse.

       You want to explain why you had agreed to the torture, that you had only gone with Ryan because you were so frustrated that Geoff wasn't allowing you to help at all, but you don't think it's a good time to get into details what with Michael's condition. “So,” you start, “about this heist--”

       He starts talking before you have the chance to sit beside him. “We heard word that Tinkerbell was moving a massive shipment of drugs tonight, and it seemed to check out,” he begins his explanation without meeting your gaze. “We underestimated the sheer fuckin’ amount of men he’d have keeping tabs on the shipment.” He shakes his head, clenches his fists. “I’m so fucking _stupid_ ,” he chastises himself. “I should have known better, I should have known he would tighten security after we’ve been targeting him.” He makes a sound that's startlingly close to a shout, and then he slams his fist against the tabletop. “We had a huge hole in our offense with Ryan gone but I stubbornly said we’d be fuckin’ fine and now Michael--he’s--” He cuts himself off before he can finish his thought. “And better yet, while I was busy being an asshole and fucking things up for our crew, Ryan went out and actually found useful information. If, if I had just waited--”

       You take a seat beside him and take both his hands into your own, brushing your lips over his tattooed knuckles. “Michael is going to make it out of this,” you assure him. “And when he does, he’s going to be pissed that you’d ever think he’d die like this.”

       Geoff chuckles weakly, broken and forced.

       “Geoff,” you say, gripping his hands tighter, “we’ll make him pay for everything he’s done. Tinkerbell can’t keep running forever...when we find him we’ll remind him why you don’t mess with the Fake AH Crew.” Though there are so many variables in your life that you’re currently unsure of, that fact is a constant that you haven’t doubted for even an instant; Tinkerbell made a powerful enemy when he fucked with the Fakes, and you hope you’ll make it to see how bad he gets burned in the end. “We're getting so close, we can't give up hope now.”

       “I don't intend to,” he assures. “That piece of shit will learn why you don’t mess with the Princess,” he says, and you feel a small smile tugging at your lips despite the state of things. He looks at you with red, swollen, glassy eyes, “I’ve missed you.”

       “I’ve missed you too.” You’ve missed him so, _so_ much--so much more than you thought you had now that you’re sitting in front of him like this.

       He offers you a ghost of a smile, a fleeting glance of the one you love so much, just before his expression turns solemn and his fingers clench around yours. “At some point I’m going to want an explanation for--”

       “Nothing happened,” you speak maybe too quickly. Nothing had, not really, not if you don’t count the non-consensual elements towards the end of your time with Ryan--but you know you’ll need to fess up eventually.

       “I trust you,” he nods without hesitation. “But that doesn’t explain why you would agree to what he had planned, why you would want to--why you would _enjoy_ \--”

       “That’s--”

       He shushes you when he leans forward for a chaste kiss; confusion is still pinching deep lines into his brow--you worry a little that he’s so calm because he’s vulnerable, exposed, showing such obvious worry for his friend after being the one to put him into the situation in the first place. “Later,” he tells you. He leans in again, not to kiss you but to simply press his forehead against your own. “ _Christ_ , I missed you.”

       You’re once again reminded of just how much you _don’t_ deserve Geoff Ramsey. He hasn’t seen you in weeks, the last time he _did_ see you was when you were storming out on him, you’d missed urgent calls, he’d caught you red-handed while you were alone with Ryan (after promising profusely that you would have absolutely nothing to do with the masked-man anymore), you’d shown up in front of him covered in blood, and he's still here, in front of you, holding your hands and lovingly pressing his nose against yours. “Can we not fight anymore?” you ask.

       “I would love that,” he agrees. “I’m sorry for, y’know, underestimating you and shit.”

       You smile a little against his lips, “Does that mean you’ll let me help with tracking Tinkerbell down?”

       He sighs deeply, “I don’t want you to get hurt, but...I’d be stupid to waste such a strong asset.” He huffs, “Well, stupid _er_.”

       You press a kiss to his lips, lingering a little longer than the previous, happy just to have him there with you again. It hasn’t been long, but you’ve missed his kisses, his caresses, the sound of his voice. What does it mean for you that you can miss someone so much after such a small amount of time apart? You have a feeling you know exactly what it means, and you wonder if now is a good time to voice that sentiment--but then the door bursts open and a winded Ray stands in the doorway.

       “Hey, not to, like, interrupt this heartfelt moment or anything but, thought you might wanna know, Michael is stabilized.”

       Geoff releases a breath that he seems to have been holding for ages, and then he gives you one of _those_ kisses, and you know it’s just a heat-of-the-moment type situation, that he’s just happy (so, so, **so** fucking happy) about the news, but you can’t help but kiss him right back.

       “No that’s cool,” Ray waves his hand. “Just keep making out while everyone gathers at our injured friend’s side. I’m sure Michael would have wanted it that way.”

       Geoff is so happy that he pulls away from you, jumps to his feet, and presses a big, sloppy kiss right on Ray’s cheek. “Does Kerry know when he’ll wake up?”

       Ray frowns (it doesn’t hide the happiness and relief that crinkles the corners of his eyes) and wipes his cheek animatedly. “Gross, dude,” he says, trying and failing to shove Geoff away. “He says it’ll probably be a while considering he’s got him on the good pain shit. Now c’mon, everyone was worried you were having make-up sex or something down here.”

       “And you were elected to come find us?” you ask with a giggle.

       “Elected? I volunteered. Hoping to catch a piece of that action.”

       The three of you share a laugh as you make your way down the hallway towards the rest of the crew; you feel light, like you’d bounce right to the ceiling if you tried to jump--and you realize that this is just the happiness that you feel when you’re around the crew, and as soon as you realize that you realize that you never want to be apart from them for so long (even though it wasn’t really long at all) ever again. You’ve created a little family here, in this very building, and you feel reinvigorated to find Tinkerbell now because he not only hurt your friends, he hurt your _family_ , and that is simply not going to fly.

       Everyone welcomes you with open arms (albeit a little hesitant with jokes that you and Geoff had just been interrupted mid-sex-time floating around; Ray, of course, doesn’t help remedy that situation at all) as soon as you step into the room.

       “The next time I call you, you’d better answer me,” Jack warns you sternly, then pulls you into a crushing hug.

       Things feel so normal (minus the fact that Michael is missing) that you start to forget that you had just been watching Ryan peel the skin off a man’s fingers not even an hour ago; you may have forgotten altogether if not for the man himself sitting at the side of the room, staring a hole into the side of your head.

       “So, love,” Gavin prompts once things have settled down. “Rye-bread said you might have some news for us.”

       You shoot an apprehensive look towards Ryan and he offers you a dry smile in return.

       “While you were all planning a heist without me,” he says in a way that is somehow both casual and accusing, “(y/n) and I found a little something on a man named Cobra.”

       All eyes turn to you and you feel that part of you, that same part that had been so hungry for goon two’s suffering, do a little dance. “We know where to find him.”

       The barrage of ' _whats_ ' and ' _hows_ ' from the crew members die down when Jack laughs and yells, “Well, what are we waiting for?! Let's hunt that son-of-a-bitch down!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the end wasn't too anticlimactic? I had a rough time ending this chapter. 
> 
> Anyway! This story is almost finished! Ahhh! Thank you to everyone who has stuck through until this long, and please continue to enjoy <3


	22. Like Lambs to the Slaughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew heads for Cobra.

       You’re not exactly sure when, but at some point you take a seat on the couch, settle comfortably into Geoff’s side, and you fall asleep faster than you’ve ever fallen asleep--you had nearly forgotten what time it was, until you saw the sun beginning to peak over the horizon and remembered that you hadn’t slept all night.

       You had explained the situation to the crew--briefly--because they were all quite confused by how you had acquired the information on Cobra and the information on how to locate Tinkerbell’s buildings. ‘ _Ryan found one of Tinkerbell’s men and we interrogated him_ ,’ you had told them. ‘ _It didn’t take much for him to spill what he knew_.’ You left it at that, leaving out the details about who exactly the man was and what exactly you did to make him spill what he knew, but the crew seemed satisfied with the answer because they immediately turned to Geoff to begin planning their next move.

       You had listened intently at the beginning, grateful to be included again, but the longer the conversation went on the harder it was to keep your eyes open. Eventually your eyes slipped shut and you didn’t open them again, convinced that you could just listen to what was being said--after all, it’s not like they had any maps or visuals. You must have fallen asleep in a matter of minutes after that.

       Which leads you to this moment, being very suddenly shaken awake by firm hands on your shoulders. You frown, squint your eyes into the morning sun that’s now streaming through the windows, and mumble something totally incoherent. The person shakes you harder and your frown deepens as sleep is dragged further and further away from you, your mind being forcefully pulled away from the peaceful haze of dream-land. “Just a little longer,” you whine. The giggle you hear in return is sweet and soft and lovely, and it’s been what feels like forever since you heard it so you open yours eyes to smile up at Jack.

       “Finally, she wakes,” Jack teases, removing her hands from your shoulders to stand straight. “You’re a heavy sleeper.”

       You sit up and stretch your arms and back. “Not usually,” you say, “I just haven’t slept very well the past few weeks.” Your brows draw together in confusion when you realize that the _reason_ you had slept so well is no longer beside you.

       Jack answers your question before you even have a chance to ask it, “He’s with Michael.”

       A flicker of hope. “Is he--?”

       “He’s not awake yet--” you have absolutely no idea how she keeps reading your mind “--but Kerry has been keeping a close eye on him and his vitals are still looking good. He thinks he should be awake by tonight or tomorrow, at the earliest.”

       It’s good news, you’re happy that Michael will be okay, but what shoves its way into the front of your mind rather than relief is a nagging little voice that calls to you: _Tinkerbell, Cobra, revenge_. “So what about the plan then?”

       Jack smirks a little and crosses her arms over her chest, “Just how much of the plan do you remember, exactly?”

       You chew on your lower lip in silent contemplation. “Well I definitely remember that we were making one,” you reply truthfully, earning a chuckle from the red-head--you would feel more embarrassed about falling asleep during the planning if you didn’t currently feel so well-rested for the first time in weeks. “Care to brief me on the rest of the details?”

       “Well, I guess if I have to,” she jokes, rolling her eyes at you playfully. The teasing lilt to her voice fades as soon as she begins speaking again, “We’re hitting the location tonight, just after sunset.” Her eyebrows draw down, partially obscured by the frames of her glasses. “We can’t wait long enough for Michael to get better; Ryan insists Corba will head for the hills as soon as he realizes his associate has disappeared.” She fits you with a gaze that’s piercing enough to make you fidget with a string of fabric hanging off the couch, nervous that she’s going to ask for further information on who exactly this _associate_ was and what exactly you and Ryan did to get Cobra’s location, but she apparently decides to spare you because she lowers her gaze and continues. “The address you were given leads to a big-shot apartment complex in the city.”

       You scoff--how like-Corba to be so completely conspicuous with his living choices.

       “He’s not a big enough name that he would own the whole building, so we’ll be checking the entrances for Tinkerbell’s mark beforehand.” She frowns, “The last thing we want is to walk in unprepared again.”

       You nod, “So how are we approaching?”

       “We’ve got three teams. Ray and I will be on look-out around the outside of the building, and, once we’ve cleared the area, you, Gavin, Geoff, and Ryan will enter the building. From there, you and Gavin will be on look-out on the inside while Geoff and Ryan head to the room.”

       You barely manage to refrain from rolling your eyes so hard they enter orbit (though you’re almost positive that Jack knows how you’re feeling without expressing it visually) because _of course_ Geoff and Ryan are the two going to the room. You’re sure that they’ve discussed the possibility that it’s a set-up (which, honestly, it might be--who knows what contingency plans Tinkerbell has in place for employees who get caught?) and you’re _sure_ that they’ve discussed the possibility that Tinkerbell himself will be there, all smug and prepared for the downfall of the Fakes and Princess, so why wouldn’t the two men with the bet on Tinkerbell’s head go to the room where he’s most likely to be?

       “I’m still not convinced that I don’t work with a bunch of children,” Jack says knowingly. She seems to teeter the edge of saying more or saying nothing at all for a moment before she speaks, quieter than usual, “Y’know, I don’t even think Ryan is a big enough asshole to go through with a bet like that.”

       You want it to reassure you, you know she’s _trying_ to reassure you, but you can’t forget the last time you spoke to her about Ryan; you can’t forget the unease in her tone when she spoke about his possessive behavior or the seriousness with which she told you Ryan has only ever cared about murder. _I don’t trust Ryan as far as I can throw him,_ she had said, and you don’t need to see her try to know that that distance isn’t very far at all. “Yeah,” you say eventually. “I hope so.” The silence that’s left between the two of you is tense and awkward, something you’re not used to with Jack (and you have a feeling it’s because she knows that she just lied to you), so you stand and remedy the situation with a simple question. “Can I see Michael?”

       “Of course, I’ll take you to the medical ward.”

       It’s still weirdly tense as she leads you out of the room and down the hallway so you reach out and grab her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Jack,” you say quietly. “I know that I’ve kind of made a mess of things around here, but I hope you know how much I appreciate, well, you.” The heavy air evaporates as she smiles widely at you and gives your hand a little squeeze back--the rest of your walk is then spent going over small details about the plan and giggling over compliments about how sweet Geoff acts around you.

       When you reach the medical ward you get hit in the nose with the stench of bleach and images of sterile tools stained red from the night before flash through your memories. You try not to show it, try to supress the shiver that’s threatening to erupt from the base of your skull, but you can feel your pace falter when the sound of goon two’s screams echo in yours ears so clearly that it almost feels like he’s there. You’re starting to believe that going along with Ryan’s plan _really_ wasn’t a good idea--is that why Geoff didn’t want you involved in the plan before? Not because he didn’t want you to get hurt (though you’re sure that he doesn’t), but because he knows your history with the Vagabond? It sounds ridiculous, almost too ridiculous to believe, but then you remember the feel of goon two’s tongue against your fingers and you start to worry that maybe there’s more truth to your idea than you’d like to admit. Maybe Geoff is being cautious because he knows just how much Ryan can get under your skin; you couldn’t blame him even if he was, not after last night, and the heist, and, well, basically _every_ moment that you’ve ever spent with the masked man. From the very beginning, before the Fake AH Crew was anything to you but a mere thorn in your side, Ryan has always been able to worm his way into your head.

       You blink rapidly when a set of fingers snap just in front of your nose. You raise your eyes to see Jack giving you a concerned look. “Sorry,” you mutter. As much as you’d like to just push your thoughts into the back of your head, you can’t seem to with the harsh chemical smell surrounding you.

       “Is everything okay?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

       “I’m okay,” you say, trying to sound as convincing as possible but you’re sure it doesn’t work because she offers you a withering look in reply.

       “One of these days you’re going to need to open up to me a little more,” she says, but then she shakes her head and smiles at you. “But, for now, how about you go in and see Michael?”

       You nod and will the thoughts about last night away as best you can, breathing through your mouth rather than your nose (though it doesn’t help much), and push the med-ward doors open. You thought you were prepared to see him, but the sight of Michael against the white backdrop of the hospital sheets, an oxygen mask over his face and cords hanging off his body in every direction, is a sight that causes tears to build in your eyes. You don’t let them loose though because you realize at that moment that you’re not in the room alone with him; there’s someone sitting in a chair beside his bed, a woman you’ve never seen before with unnaturally red hair.

       She’s facing you, most likely alerted by the sound of the door opening. She looks you up and down for a minute and then smiles warmly. “You must be (y/n), I’ve heard a lot about you.”

       “Hopefully good things,” you say awkwardly, taking a step forward. You remember suddenly that Geoff is supposed to be here, “Um, do you know where Geoff is?” The grin she gives you feels like she’s reading you like a book and you nervously adjust your weight from one foot to the other.

       “He left like five minutes ago, said something about going over plans with Ryan again.”

       You can only imagine how many times Geoff has forced each member of the crew to go over the plan with him already, knowing how nervous he is after Michael was shot. “Well that makes sense.” You gnaw at your lip, unsure how to proceed from here.

       “I’m Lindsay,” she supplies, motioning you forward, “Michael’s wife.”

       “Oh. I mean, I didn’t realize--”

       She shrugs, “I’m not surprised.” She turns back to Michael and runs her fingers gently through his curly hair. “You’re still pretty new, and I do mostly behind-the-scenes recon work for the crew, so it’s not surprising that they wouldn’t talk about me.”

       Wow, she even works for the crew? You’re kind of impressed--first Caiti, now Lindsay--the Fakes are pretty good at keeping their personal lives under tight wrap. “How’s he doing?” you ask, now that you’re standing beside her at the edge of the bed.

       “He’s great,” she says. “He’s doing a lot better now than he’ll be doing once he wakes up and I kick his ass into a coma for scaring me like that.”

       You laugh at that, already feeling like you’re going to like Lindsay. “I’m glad.”

       She laughs too, then smiles softly towards her husband. “Me too.”

       There’s a beat of silence, not even long enough for you to completely your next breath.

       “So I hear you and Ryan fuck.”

       Your face erupts with color and you make a quick mental note--Lindsay Jones is one blunt motherfucker.

 

       You check every door-frame around the apartment complex and you can’t find a single fairy anywhere; the building doesn’t belong to Tinkerbell, at least, not according to the information you had gathered from goon two. You’re not sure if it makes you feel better or worse that you can’t find his mark, because now the Fakes are storming a building filled with (potentially) innocent people, and you know based on reports that they don’t necessarily hesitate with the casualties if it means covering their asses. To be fair, taking assassination jobs without knowing much about the targets you’ve killed is comparable, so you can’t really complain.

       The sun had just barely set over the horizon, streaks of oranges and pinks still decorating the skyline, when Jack and Ray took their positions. Ray was perched on a nearby rooftop with his sniper, where he was always the most comfortable, and Jack was slowly circling the block in a black vehicle with tinted windows. They watched the building until the sunset had completely faded, leaving the sky dark but for the reflection of city-lights off the clouds; they spotted nothing out of the ordinary and you were easily able to approach the door on the back side of the building with Geoff, Ryan, and Gavin.

       The complex was massive, ten floors and glass walls and fancy decorations. At the front of the first floor was an elegant lobby and an adjacent indoor pool, but the back door led straight into a hallway, and not far from the back door was an elevator. Unfortunately, the back door required a key--but it didn’t take long for a resident to walk by, and it wasn’t difficult for Ryan to knock them out with a quick blow to the back of the head. With the key in hand, it was simply a matter of waiting for the signal.

       Geoff is close beside you and as you wait in an alleyway near the back entrance he slips his fingers through yours and lifts your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “Be safe,” he whispers to you.

       You smile and nod, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before pulling your mask over your face. “You too,” you say. You pointedly ignore the feeling of eyes boring into the back of your head.

       The second you hear the signal from Jack and Ray you lead the group out of the alleyway and open the back door to the apartment complex. With your gun at the ready you check both ends of the wallway, and you’re relieved when you don’t see any bystanders (though you all have silencers on your weapons, just in case, you’d rather not have to kill someone who hasn’t done anything aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time). You press the button on your com, “Ray, we’re ready for the distraction.”

       “Roger that,” Ray replies, and moments later you hear a few bullets collide with metal at the front of the building.

       You really hope that the sound isn’t loud enough to alert the whole building, but you needed a way to distract the security guards from watching the cameras without compromising a member of the crew. Lindsay had suggested that she could do it, but Geoff wanted her to stay with Michael, and since she’s always worked behind the scenes for the crew they didn’t want to potentially expose her to Tinkerbell. Jack affirms that the lobby is empty and you estimate you have about ten minutes to get inside and get to the room, if you’re lucky.

       Geoff and Ryan skirt by you as soon as you signal that the first floor is clear. Cobra’s apartment is seven floors up, so they’re quick to make their way to the elevator while you and Gavin watch the corners for passersby. The atmosphere is tense once you’re all inside and the doors close--it almost feels as if everything is going _too_ perfectly, especially after what happened during the last heist.

       When the doors chime and slide open you and Gavin exit first, posting up at either side of Cobra’s apartment. The hallway up here is clear as well, and it does nothing to ease the feeling nagging at you; the apprehensive way that Geoff and Ryan approach the door is enough to signal that they must feel the same. You don’t have time to assess the situation further, to talk about further contingency plans, because Ryan lifts his leg and easily kicks the door in before anyone can begin second-guessing the plan.

       You hold your breath as Geoff and Ryan rush into the apartment and it takes every ounce of will you have not to follow after them. It doesn’t take long before you hear a shout that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck that are standing on end relax.

       “ _Who the hell are you?!_ ”

       It’s been a while since you heard his voice, but not long enough for you to forget what it sounds like--it’s Cobra alright, and it sounds like he’s alone. You feel the tension draining out of your body even as you tighten your grip on your gun (because things are going to start getting loud and a neighbor could step out to investigate at any time); at least goon two had given you good information before you--Ryan--the _Vagabond_ \--killed him.

       You hear more shouting, Ryan’s calm, patronizing questions, Geoff’s scoffing laughter, and a barrage of thumps indicative of a fight. You want to watch, want to see, want to **interrogate** again, but you stand your ground.

       “We’ve got him, he’s alone,” Geoff says over the com, and you hear the echo of his voice from the apartment behind you. “Get the car ready, we’ll be down in five.”

       “I’ll be there,” Jack confirms.

       Geoff suddenly steps out of the room and offers you a quick thumbs-up before he continues to the elevator. Ryan follows closely behind him, dragging a tied and gagged Cobra behind him.

       You feel a shock of thrill when you see his face and you wave your fingers at him arrogantly, smile widening into a grin when his eyes narrow upon seeing you. He thrashes in Ryan’s hold, to no avail, and it makes you laugh aloud. You feel your heart leap into your throat when Ryan’s head turns towards you in acknowledgement, and even though you can’t see his expression you know that he must be smirking at you.

       Gavin steps up behind you and places a hand on your shoulder. “We’re getting closer, love,” he says. “Ooh, Micoo’s gonna be so bloody excited when he wakes up!”

       You smile at him, at their friendship, at the idea that this whole escapade is almost over. If the rest of the night goes as smoothly as this plan had, you would have Tinkerbell’s location in no time. Finally, you could begin healing, living without the fear that he’s right around every corner. “We’re getting closer,” you repeat to yourself happily.

       You’re all standing in the elevator, the tension that was once in the air replaced with a nervous excitement, when your com crackles loudly in your ear.

       “Alpha One, we have a problem!” Jack shouts, urgent, afraid.

       Your breath catches in your throat-- _what’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?_

       Geoff is quick to answer back, “What’s going on?!”

       You look at Cobra, notice that he’s stopped struggling against Ryan and is instead staring right at you, grinning wildly around the cloth in his mouth. Your stomach churns and you feel bile rise in the back of your throat.

       “It’s an ambush, you all need to hurry!”

       “What? Here?!” Gavin asks, incredulous. “But everything is going so well, you loon!”

       “Not here,” Jack says, out of breath. “It’s--they’re--”

       “Everywhere else,” Cobra’s voice is loud over the com, muffled behind his gag.

       “Everywhere else,” Jack confirms. “Lindsay says they had to barricade the medical ward, that they’re okay for now, but Michael isn't, he's still _healing_ , dammit--and our, our bank accounts, they’re all--”

       You’ve never heard Jack sound so shaken up before, enough that her voice quivers and she drops two crew member names, but you can’t blame her.

       “Mother _fucker!_ ” Geoff curses. He begins frantically pushing the first floor button, as if it’ll make the elevator move any faster. “ _God fucking dammit!_ ”

       Cobra seems to take great pleasure in watching the Fakes begin to crumble, if his nasally laughter is anything to go by, but it doesn’t last long before Ryan punches him so hard across the face that you hear his nose crunch. Cobra sputters as if he’s surprised and then Ryan is punching him again, and again, and again, and--

       You lunge forward and grab his arm, having to practically wrap yourself around it to hold him in place, and even then you’re struggling to keep your footing as he pushes against you. “Stop!” you cry. “You can’t! We need him!”

       “For _what?!_ ” Ryan seethes, breath heaving behind his mask.

       You're not sure for what at this point, and part of you really wants to let Ryan beat the man to death right in the elevator, right in front of you, but you know you can't. You don't know why, but you can't; you're determined he'll be useful to you somehow.

       The elevator doors slide open and Geoff grabs the nearly-unconscious Cobra by the arm as he storms out, dragging him away from Ryan and out the back door of the complex. “Jack, we’re approaching the alley,” he informs over the com, his voice icy.

       Gavin hurries out after Geoff and you don’t let go of Ryan’s arm as the two of you follow them. You notice just as you’re leaving that the security camera in the upper corner of the hallway is blinking red, and you’re sure that the guards must be back inside by now, but you hear no footsteps, no voices, nothing. You curse under your breath--it’s been a set-up the whole fucking time.

       Jack is waiting for you at the other end of the alleyway, the headlights bright against the dark of the evening. Geoff just barely reaches the car, just barely has time to shove Cobra into the back seat, when a gunshot pierces the air.

       It’s so close that your ears ring, and your eyes skirt to Ryan, to Gavin, to Geoff--no one looks hurt, no one is bleeding. Another gunshot, searing pain in your calf as a bullet tears through skin and muscle and buries into the concrete in front of you. You stumble forward, land on your knees hard on the ground. You hear a shout, dull around the high-pitched ringing in your ears, and then another gunshot flies past your head, close enough that it clips your ear.

       You hear a muted laugh, and then a warning, “I wouldn’t get too close to her if I were you.”

       You turn your head, because even though your hearing is damaged, even though your blood is rushing to your head faster than it ever has, even though the pain radiating from your torn ear is enough to make your head spin, you need to see his face.

       Tinkerbell is standing in the alley, illuminated only by the headlights of Jack’s car. “Although, I suppose you’ve already gotten too close to her, haven’t you?” he mocks. “I never paid much attention to your little _crew_ before, but I find it hard to believe you were this sloppy before she wove her way into your lives, isn’t that right, Geoff?”

       Geoff growls low in his throat, slams the car-door shut with Cobra (still laughing, though it's garbled around the blood from his nose and mouth) inside, and throws his mask onto the ground. “Jack, get out of here!” he orders. “Get Ray and get to the others!” Jack seems to hesitate for only a few seconds before the car speeds off and the alleyway grows dark. Geoff takes a step forward, towards Tinkerbell, towards his friends, towards _you_ , but he freezes when Tinkerbell raises his gun and aims it at your head.

       “I told you I wouldn’t do that,” Tinkerbell says again, but this time the playfulness in his voice has vanished and is replaced with a cold seriousness that causes goosebumps to scatter over your arms. “Unless you want me to take that pretty little head of hers off right here--and oh, trust me, I would love to do exactly that--I would suggest that you drop your weapons, now.”

       When nobody moves right away Tinkerbell fires another shot.

       You flinch when the bullet hits the cement just to the right of your already-injured leg.

       “Do what he says,” Geoff orders.

       “I don’t think--”

       Ryan’s complaint is cut short when Tinkerbell fires another shot, but this time it doesn’t miss, this time the bullet grazes the side of your neck.

       You gasp and lurch forward, lifting a hand to press against the bleeding wound; it’s shallow, but close enough to vital arteries and veins that your eyes water with frightened tears.

       “I won’t miss next time,” Tinkerbell assures, steadying his aim at your skull once more. He’s an incredible shot, you have to give him that.

       “Ryan, drop the fucking gun!” Geoff yells, dropping his own weapon and kicking it across the pavement, far from reach.

       You hear the clatter of another gun dropping, Gavin’s you’re sure, and when you look up you see that Ryan’s fist is still tight around his, and that his entire posture is coiled like a snake about to strike. You close your eyes, clench your fingers tighter around the gash on your neck, and try to prepare for another shot. You briefly wonder what death will feel like, if it’ll be as fast as it seems or something more slow and agonizing, but then there’s another loud clatter and you raise your head to see Ryan kick his gun away from himself, eyes blazing brighter than you’d ever seen them behind his mask.

       “Good boy,” Tinkerbell patronizes. “Now that you’ve all put those nasty toys away, allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Tinkerbell.”

       “Don’t hurt her,” Geoff responds. “You’ve got our cash, what more could you want?”

       “She’s got you all wrapped around her little finger, hasn’t she?” Tinkerbell taunts with a sickening laugh. “A real shame; it’s likely we never would have crossed each other if she hadn’t. I wouldn’t have been forced to shoot your friend, or steal everything you own.”

       Geoff looks like he’s grinding his teeth, the muscles in his jaw taut with the strain. “And you wouldn’t have lost so many men,” he says, an attempt to stay on equal footing with him.

       Tinkerbell scoffs, makes a big show of how funny he thinks the statement is. “Do you honestly believe you’ve even put a dent in my resources?” he asks smugly. “So you’ve got Cobra? Fine. Kill him. You’d be doing me a favor, really, I haven’t been able to get him off my back lately.” He levels his gaze on Ryan, “You really think you got your hands onto one of my employees without me knowing?” He sees confusion flit across Ryan's eyes and he laughs yet again. “I _gave_ him to you, you simpletons, to set up this very moment.”

       “You set up your own employee?” you wheeze.

       “You seem to think my employees mean something to me,” he replies. “Yes, I set him up. I needed him to be believable when he gave you that information. Of course, he didn’t know that. He didn’t know why I sent him to such an obvious location so close to your crew, and he didn’t know that the information I gave him about Cobra and the ‘marks’ was false. I’m a bit disappointed, actually. Did you _really_ think I marked the buildings I owned?”

       “You sent a man to die just to get us here?” you repeat, disbelieving. You had known Tinkerbell was twisted, but you thought he was at least loyal to his own men.

       Tinkerbell sneers, “You stupid, self-righteous bitch, have the bullets really affected your hearings so much? It’s not as though he died for nothing--you and your stupid little crew fell right into the trap.” He takes a breath, calms his demeanor. “By the way, little Princess, how did you kill him?”

       You suck in a sharp breath--there’s no way he knows, right? How could he?

       “I assume your masked friend here--Ryan, is it? Or do you prefer being called the Vagabond?--brought you with him, am I right? After what he did to my employee before, I’d love to see what happened once he got you involved.”

       Ryan makes a sound close to a snarl. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

       Tinkerbell doesn’t look amused by that, “I don’t think you have the authority to say that to me right now.”

       “What do you want with us?” Geoff asks suddenly, trying to steer the conversation away from the subject and simultaneously ebb Ryan’s rage. “You’ve already taken everything, what more is left?”

       He hums thoughtfully, “Y’know, you might be right. I’ve managed to take your money, your supplies, but...even so, I’m just not quite satisfied yet. Would you like to know why, Geoff?” He doesn’t give him a chance to answer. “It’s because the last time I tried to rid myself of a pain in the ass you got in my way, and I just have this _itch_ ” he clutches his gun tighter and a crazed look momentarily mars his expression “in the back of my head telling me that if I let you and your precious little crew live, you’ll just keep interfering over and over and _over_ again!”

       “Where does that leave us, then?” Geoff doesn’t even try to deny the accusation.

       Tinkerbell laughs for what feels like the millionth time--you’re not sure how much time has actually passed, but the blood is still seeping slowly from your neck and your leg and you’re starting to feel light-headed--but this time it’s darker, more sinister. “Are you getting bored, Geoff?” he asks, voice dripping with acid. “Would you like me to speed up this little meeting? Would you like to know what I really want out of all of this?”

       Geoff is starting to lose his cool, and it’s easy to tell because his reply is disgustingly sweet in it’s sarcasm. “Please.”

       Another wicked laugh, a wide, disturbing smile, and then eerie silence. He looks down to his feet, never lowering his weapon, and Geoff takes the chance to take silent, cautious steps forward. Tinkerbell stays like that for what feels like an eternity, long enough that everyone is on edge, and then a strained, broken chuckle escapes his lips and he speaks in a voice pitched with malicious intent. “What I want is your fucking heads mounted on my fucking wall.”

       It feels like you only blink once and you miss what happens entirely (or it could be the fact that you’re still leaking blood, have been for who knows how long, and your eyesight is starting to get a little choppy). You see the barrel of Tinkerbell’s gun, see the strain of the muscles in his arm as he squeezes the trigger, and then you blink. You feel like you should be dead, like the bullet should have reached you by now, but you feel no impact, no pain. Your eyes open again and you realize exactly why you aren’t dead.

       You feel like your heart stops.

       He isn’t breathing, he isn’t breathing, he isn’t _fucking_ breathing.

       There’s so much **blood**.

       You don’t realize when you start screaming, don’t know for how long you’ve been screaming; you can’t hear anything else, can’t see anything else, can’t do anything else, because you can’t focus on anything but the **blood** ,

       the _breathing (he isn’t breathing)_ ,

          the **blood (so much blood)** ,

             the _breathing (why isn’t he breathing)_.

                “ _Geoff!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooo! The next chapter is going to be the last chapter! We've made it to the end! Hooray for Lindsay cameos! 
> 
> Also, huuuuge apology for this super late update! In the time between now and my last update I graduated, got a new job, and moved. Needless to say, I've been super busy, but I'm really hoping to get this next update out a lot faster than this one! 
> 
> I really hope this was worth the wait and I'm endlessly grateful for all the support and feedback <3


	23. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story comes to a close (finally).

       Your hands are shaking, sticky, dark with blood.

       Your nails are chipped and cracked from dragging yourself across the pavement.

       Geoff’s head is resting in your lap, eyes dim.

       You haven’t stopped screaming. “Geoff, no, no, no-- _please_ , no--!” You rock him back and forth gently, pressing your fingers tight against the hole in his chest as best you can but there’s so much blood, gushing like a river between your fingers no matter how much pressure you apply. Tears drip off the end of your nose and onto his face to mix with the blood that’s bubbling from between his lips as your screams fade to choked sobs and pleas. “Geoff, please don’t do this, please don’t do this, please--oh god--please…” You caress his cheek with bloodied fingers, smooth his hair back with your palm, and lean down to kiss every crease on his forehead and around his eyes.

       Geoff sputters, draws in a short, ragged breath, and his blue eyes meet yours--filled with fear, sadness, regret, adoration, _love_. He uses what strength he has left to lift his fingertips to your cheek, tracing the line of your cheekbone for too short a moment before it falls back to his side. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a weak cough and a new wave of blood.

       You try frantically to adjust him, to lift his head so that he doesn’t choke on his own blood, but when he grunts like he’s in pain you freeze. “Geoff, _please_ , tell me what I can do--I can’t--I don’t know how--” You can see his lower lip move, still trying to say something but unable to form the words, so you kiss his temple and gently wipe the blood away from his mouth with your thumb. “Don’t strain yourself,” you say.

       His eyes crinkle in the corners and it’s so familiar, so heartbreakingly familiar, because you suddenly know that he’s trying to smile for you. As quickly as it’s there it fades and his eyes become unfocused once more, the rise and fall of his chest steadily growing slower, shallower.

       You choke on a sob. “Please don’t leave me,” you whisper to him. “I need you.”

       You can distantly hear Gavin’s voice (more strained than you’ve ever heard it), shouting into the com for someone-- _anyone_ \--to help.

       In what feels like the same instant you hear a roar, more animal than human. Seconds later you hear another gunshot and you finally manage to drag your eyes away from Geoff’s face just in time to see Ryan, with a bullet-hole ripped through his left shoulder, tackle Tinkerbell to the ground. Your gaze fixes on the masked man as he lands heavily on the druglord, pinning him to the concrete with the weight of his body, and begins slamming his gloved fists repeatedly into the man’s face. You watch as the leather covering Ryan’s knuckles begins to turn red (and you wonder briefly if he’s splitting his own skin with the force of the blows, if the gloves are just as red on the inside now as the outside), and you watch as Tinkerbell’s hand goes limp around his weapon. You crane your neck in an attempt to see more of his face, but blood and teeth and broken fragments of skin obscure your view of what you want to see most--the light fading from his sick, twisted eyes.

       Geoff gurgles up more blood that slides down across his cheeks and onto your legs--you can’t tear your eyes away from the way that Tinkerbell’s muscles go slack, the way his arms, once raised in defense, fall uselessly at his sides as his face becomes more and more unrecognizable. Your ears are still ringing faintly, your vision is fading in and out, and you feel more light-headed than you’ve ever felt but you _can’t_ look away--not when the man who had tormented you, tormented your friends-- _killed_ ... no, no, **no** , he’s going to be okay, dammit--not when Tinkerbell is dying right in front of your eyes.

       Ryan doesn’t stop, continues driving his fists into the bloodied, indistinguishable lump of flesh that once served as a face, until Gavin grabs him by the shoulders and uses all his strength to tear them apart. They land on their asses on the pavement, chests heaving, both tensely watching Tinkerbell’s form, the gun that now rests uselessly in his open hand, to make sure (just to _really_ make sure, as though it isn’t obvious already) that he doesn’t move. He doesn’t.

       It’s over.

       All of it is over.

       Tinkerbell is dead.

       “He’s dead,” you whisper, voice quaking with emotion. “Geoff, he’s--he’s--” You look down into your lap, caress his cold face with quivering fingers, his blood catching and building beneath your fingernails. “He’s gone, Geoff, it’s going to be okay!” You lean over him, press your forehead against his own and laugh a forced, broken laugh. “We can finally have a normal life together, Geoff,” you whisper to him.

       He doesn’t move, his chest motionless beneath your palm, and you feel like the world is crumbling around you.

       You don’t know how much time passes before headlights fill the alleyway; you don’t hear the sound of car doors frantically opening and closing, thudding footsteps barreling towards you. You continue to stare down at Geoff, trying to remember the sound of his laugh, the feel of his lips against your own, the comfort of his tattooed fingers intertwining with yours. Hands gently take hold of your shoulders, and then someone tries to move Geoff away from you. “ _No!_ ” you shout, reaching for him, desperate to be as close to him as you once were even as he’s lifted from the ground in front of you and carried away. You fight tooth-and-nail against whoever is holding you back from him and you manage to break their hold, but before you can take more than two steps towards the person who is _taking Geoff away_ , a new set of hands grab you by your upper arms and hold you still with bruising force. “Let me go,” you plead. The adrenaline is wearing off now and a sluggish feeling washes over you--the pain from your leg, from where you had been shot, races back with such a sudden ferocity that you would have fallen over if not for the large hands holding you steady. You slowly look away from the headlights, from the shadowy figure carrying Geoff further and further away from you, and manage to focus on the man in front of you that is now supporting basically the entire weight of your body--when did he take off his mask?--with fresh tears welling in your eyes. “Ryan,” your voice cracks over his name. You lean further into him, press your face against his chest to muffle your sobs, “Where’s Geoff? Where are they taking him?”

       Ryan carefully lifts you off the ground, “They’re taking him to the hospital.”

       You clutch Ryan’s shirt and cry like you haven’t cried since Tinkerbell had you locked up in that room. “I love him,” you say through your weeping, and you completely miss the way that Ryan’s arms        tense around you. “I love him so much--I don’t know what I’ll do if...if he…”

       “He won’t,” Ryan replies with a reassuring finality.

       You really, really want to believe him.

 

       You wake up surrounded by white but you don’t feel panic this time; it’s becoming familiar now, waking up in an uncomfortable cot, connected to who knows how many wires and tubes, and that’s a worrying thought. Your throat feels incredibly dry and when you try to speak, try to ask if anyone else is in the room without opening your eyes to the bright of the room, all that comes from your mouth is a scratchy groan.

       “Hey, she fucking lives,” a sarcastic remark comes from your right.

       You can’t help the little smile that pulls at your mouth. “Michael,” you greet (you’re not sure that the sound you make sounds anything like his name, but he probably gets the gist), cracking open an eye in order to see him; he looks much better, less pale, sitting up in his bed now but still attached to machinery that’s monitoring his vitals.

       “I wouldn’t try to talk much if I were you,” he says, and at your look of confusion he simply points at you and then at his neck.

       You lift the arm not attached to the IV and touch the bandage that’s wrapped tightly around your throat. Right--the bullet that grazed your neck. You ignore Michael’s warning, “How long?”

       He frowns, “No idea. I woke up like two days ago with you laying there looking like death beside me.”

       It’s been more than two days then. But how much longer? Where is everyone else? Where is  _Geoff?_ You remember him being carried away, you remember Ryan picking you up and bringing you here (you’re not really sure where _here_ is, aside from yet another building the Fakes own somewhere in Los Santos), but Geoff hadn’t come here...no, they had taken him to a hospital. They had taken the leader of a renowned criminal crew, someone the cops had been after for years, to a hospital. Your breathing becomes labored, panicked, and a machine that you can’t see beeps in warning from behind you.

       “Whoa, take it easy,” Michael tries to calm you down, but he can’t move to you with the threat of his wound tearing (and hearing an earful from Kerry about it) looming over him. “(Y/n), Jesus Christ, calm down!”

       The door slams open and Kerry rushes in, eyes urgently searching for the source of alarm. “What the hell happened?!” he asks as he quickly makes his way towards you.

       “How the fuck should I know?!” Michael scoffs. “She just woke up and started freaking out!”

       The door opens yet again and Ryan storms in (voices in the hallway yell at him to stop as the door shuts behind him), his arm held in place by a sling, his knuckles wrapped in clean, white gauze. He all but shoves Kerry to the side in order to seat himself on the edge of your bed. He says your name, deep and soothing, raising damaged fingers to stroke from your jaw to the bandage on your neck.

       “Ryan,” you croak.

       “He’s alive,” he says, before you can manage another word. “Critical condition, but alive. Jack is with him at the hospital.”

       He’s alive.

       He’s _alive_.

       Tears build in your eyes and Ryan watches impassively as they streak down your face. “I need to--” You move to stand, to leave, to go find him, see him alive and breathing with your own two eyes, but Ryan places a hand hard on your shoulder and stops you.

       “You’re not going anywhere,” he says darkly. “You can’t walk with severed muscles in your leg.” He sneers then, eyes dark with complex emotions you can’t think to sort out at the moment. “Besides, they’ve got them surrounded by police, none of us can get anywhere even close to the building right now.”

       Your eyes widen and you turn your gaze to Kerry.

       “I wouldn’t have been able to save him, (y/n),” he tries to explain, but the look of shock and confusion and hurt in your eyes must make it all the more difficult. “Tinkerbell’s men ruined a lot of our supplies, I already had Michael on my hands--”

       “Hey, what the fuck?” Michael cuts in.

       “--and I had you and Ryan with bullet wounds on top of that. Geoff was probably moments from dying by the time Jack got him to the hospital, if she would have taken him to me there’s no way…”

       You nod, because you know it was the right decision, because Kerry can’t be blamed for what happened, because Geoff is alive, but you’re still angry. You’re angry that anyone was hurt at all, that you fell right into Tinkerbell’s trap, that you were naïve enough to believe that goon two really knew anything about Tinkerbell’s true intent at all.

       Your anger must burn bright in your eyes because Ryan leans closer, “This isn’t your fault.”

       “It is my fault,” you reply, forcing your voice out even though it feels like you’ve eaten sandpaper. Kerry offers you a glass of water which you gladly accept and gulp down quickly; it helps a little, enough for you to keep speaking in a whisper at least. “I was so focused on getting revenge that I underestimated Tinkerbell over and over and over again, and it almost cost Geoff his life. Now it’s going to cause both he and Jack their freedom. I’d be surprised if they haven’t already taken Jack in.”

       “I would be,” Michael says. “From what I heard she got pretty fucked up trying to help us evacuate this place before she headed back to grab Geoff. They wouldn’t just throw an injured lady to the wolves, would they?”

       You sigh heavily, the information making you feel no better. You drop your head, unable to look at the crew you’ve hurt any longer, “I never should have gotten any of you involved in this.” When Ryan doesn’t say anything you assume he’s angry, but when you look up he’s smirking at you.

       “Do you honestly think we’re just going to let Geoff and Jack rot in jail?”

       “Seriously, who the fuck do you think we are? You really think we won’t be able to break them out of that shitty prison? Or an even shittier hospital?” Michael agrees.

       “How will we even know if Geoff is alright?” you mumble.

       “Jack is smarter than she looks, there’s no fuckin’ way she went into a situation like that without some sort of plan on how to contact us.”

       “How do you think we knew how Geoff was alright in the first place?” Ryan asked, holding up his phone for you to look at. It's open to a conversation with someone named Meg, and several of the messages detail what was going on in the hospital with Geoff and Jack.

       You really shouldn’t be surprised by their resourcefulness anymore but their list of connections never ceases to amaze you--you’ve lost count of the amount of times now that you’ve realized you heavily underestimated their crew before you got to know them. You settle down more comfortably against the cot and it placates Ryan enough for him to release his hold on your shoulder. You turn to look at Kerry, who is standing off to the side after being pushed by Ryan, looking like he desperately wants to be checking your bandages or IV or whatever else it is he wants to check. “Thank you,” you say. “I really owe you one. Again.”

       “You wouldn’t have to if you’d stop getting fucking shot,” Michael offers.

       “You’re one to talk.”

       “Hey, this is my first time in the med-ward in like...fuck, a few months at least.”

       “Is that supposed to impress me?”

       “It’s not every other week is it, miss accident prone?”

       “I don’t think kidnapping counts as an accident.”

       “Wow, well I judge by the bickering that everyone is feeling better.” Everyone turns towards Lindsay as she strides into the room, not having heard the door opening over the banter.

       “Better is subjective,” you shrug, and immediately regret the decision as the movement of your shoulder pushes a little too hard against the bandages on your neck. “I’ll feel better once I know Geoff is okay,” you say more to yourself than to anyone else.

       “We’ll get him back,” she assures you, taking a seat beside Michael and threading her fingers through his. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this crew it’s that they’re loyal to a fault.”

       “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Michael accuses.

       The redhead looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I suppose there are certainly worse things to be. Maybe.”

       You turn away from the happy couple as they sink into their own conversation (riddled with more insults than you’ve ever heard any two people throw at each other but, hey, what did you expect?). The smile that had begun to tug at your lips fades--being with your friends can only bring so much relief when the man you love is in critical condition, far away from where you can reach him.

       Love. It’s so strange to finally admit it--it’s been such a long time coming now, but to have finally, truly accepted it, to have finally said the words out loud… Your breath hitches as the hazy memory returns to you; Ryan had lifted you off the ground and cradled you against his chest while you told him you were in love with Geoff. You chance a look at the blonde man and his eyes meet yours; you don’t see any anger (or jealously, or possessiveness, or even murderous intent) in his gaze and you feel a flood of relief. You reach for his hand and gently hold his damaged fingers, “Thank you, for getting rid of him.” You think you catch a hint of a smile.

       “I didn’t do it for you,” he admits quietly. “As much as I would love to say I did, I didn’t. I killed him because I thought he killed my friend.”

       You feel a pang of something radiate from deep in your chest. In all the time you’ve known Ryan he has shown you many sides, but the vulnerability in his voice as he speaks to you now is entirely new. The word ‘friend’ on his tongue sounds foreign coming from his mouth, you feel as though you’ve heard him say it before but never with such conviction; it makes you smile widely at him.

       He cocks an eyebrow at you in turn, a gesture you’re much more familiar with.

       “We’re going to get him back,” you repeat Lindsay’s words from earlier and, this time, you really do believe it. You offer another smile before Kerry finally manages to shoo Ryan away in order to administer you more pain medication and redress your bandages.

       Ryan leaves the room, a scowl marring his face as soon as he turns away from you.

 

       The wait is excruciating.

       Your mood fluctuates a lot, but you typically find yourself in a state of emotionlessness, cold, lonely, _empty_. The absence of Geoff and Jack creates a void in the crew that can’t be ignored--everything is somber, each laugh and smile (when they are there at all) lack the usual luster, and most of the crew avoids one another unless there’s news about the situation.

       You lose track of how much time passes.

       The wound in your leg is slowly improving, a few weeks from being healed externally, eons from being healed internally (or at least it feels like it); Kerry has you doing a ton of physical therapy and you’re grateful for the distraction. When you walk you use a cane and Ray jokes about how the Princess is now officially a pimp--a nice reprieve from the depression, a brief moment filled with laughter. It doesn’t last long.

       Ryan’s shoulder heals slower, mostly due to him not listening to Kerry’s instructions and only attending his physical therapy sessions when he feels like it. He stops wearing the sling earlier than he should and disappears for long stretches of the day without preamble--when he returns a sheen of sweat usually covers his skin as though he’s been exerting himself and the sound of Kerry’s disappointed yelling can be heard throughout most of the building.

       Michael is eventually given permission to leave the hospital ward, which he rejoices loudly about, repeating several times how uncomfortable the hospital beds are.

       Meg has a hard time getting much information from Jack besides the bare basics.

       They’re still surrounded by police; she’s scheduled to be taken to jail in two days.

       Geoff hasn’t woken up.

       “We need to go tonight,” Ryan says one night during a crew meeting. “I know we had hoped Geoff would be awake by now but he's not, and if he and Jack get separated this becomes a whole lot harder for us.”

       “Oh, sure, good plan,” Ray nods. “We’ll head right into the fray with three cripples, one idiot, and a devilishly handsome Puerto Rican. Sounds about right to me.”

       “I can help,” Lindsay offers. “I don’t always need to do background shit.”

       “I don’t think adding another idiot into the mix is going to help this cake bake, but sure,” he replies dryly.

       “I thought you were going cakeless, X-Ray,” Gavin points out cheekily.

       “Exactly. I am. Especially when it's a recipe for disaster, that’s my fucking point.”

       “Your shoulder won’t be able to handle the strain right now,” Kerry argues with Ryan. “If you hurt it again this soon you could be left with permanent damage. And don’t even get me started on Michael and (y/n).”

       “I feel fine,” Michael says. “And if Lindsay is going you bet your fucking ass I’m going too.”

       Ryan slams his hands on the coffee table suddenly, silencing the rest of the room. “Right now is our best chance. Geoff is at least stable, Jack is with him, we just need to fucking reach them. They’ll be expecting us, yeah, but they’d never expect her,” he points at Lindsay. “They don't know her face, she's never been in the field like this. If she can get in she can give us the numbers we need.”

       “Undercover, I like it,” Lindsay rubs her hands together mischievously.

       “Still sounds like a shitty cake if you ask me,” Ray drawls.

       “If they separate them, the cops get the upper hand and they know it,” you reason, “it’s why they’re rushing to get Jack out of there as fast as they can--they know we’re going to be coming for them.” You look around the room, “As much fun as a jailbreak sounds, I think breaking them out of a hospital will be much easier.”

       “Much less fun, you mean,” Ray says with a pout, crossing his arms over his chest, earning knowing smiles from everyone in the room. Of course he was only complaining because he thought it would be more fun to break them out of prison, leave it to Ray to look for a challenge at a time like this. 

       “Does that mean you’re in, then?” Gavin asks hopefully.

       “I mean, hey, I’m not the one that always gets hurt so what the fuck do I care?” he shrugs.

       “Let’s plan a heist,” Ryan says. “The goal is to steal Jack and Geoff...and maybe a little extra if we happen to run across anything,” he smirks.

       You feel a bubble in the pit of your stomach--if all goes well you’ll get to see Geoff tonight. You just hope, given your record lately, that it all goes well.

 

       You know the plan, had gone through it over and over and over again in your mind until you had memorized every tiny detail, so when you wake up two-and-a-half hours later than you were supposed to you immediately tumble out of bed and begin scrambling for something decent to put on. What the fuck had happened? You grab your phone as you wiggle your pants over your hips and struggle to button them with one hand. You hadn’t slept through the alarm, you’re sure of it, you turned the volume on extra high so that you wouldn’t--you squint through the darkness at the bright screen and notice that the little clock icon beside the alarm is no longer highlighted. Did you forget to turn it on before you fell asleep? No, you double, triple, quadruple (and maybe more) checked that the alarm was on, so what…?

       Your fist clenches around your cell-phone and it takes all your willpower not to throw it into the closest wall. If you know without a doubt that you had set your alarm and you hadn’t slept through it, there could only be one explanation.

       That motherfucker.

       You have his number dialed before you make it through the door--like you expect, the building is silent and dark, completely empty. When you get his voicemail you shout into the speaker: “Ryan, you goddamn piece of shit, did you fucking plan this?! I thought we agreed I could help Lindsay get into the hospital! Goddammit, how could you do this?!” You slam the end button and lean your shoulder heavily against the wall, the muscles in your injured leg stinging from overuse. You hobble back to your room and grab your cane, but you’re not sure where you’re going to go once you have it. You’re sure that the heist is already underway, and you’re sure that none of them will answer if you call--you’re sure that none of them would have answered even if the heist hadn’t begun yet. The traitors.

       Maybe you can just drive yourself there, you know you have a little handgun hidden away somewhere around here and they won’t be able to stop you if you show up unannounced, but then you remember--you don’t even know where the hospital is, dammit. How could you possibly overlook a detail like that?

       You slide down the wall, landing miserably on your butt and burying your face in your hands. You have no idea where the crew is, you have no idea where _Geoff_ is, and you have no way to contact them, no way to get to them, no way to know if they’re okay. Even though you have total faith in them, even though you know that you would be a liability with your messed up leg, you still desperately want to be there.

       You check the time on your phone; the heist should have officially begun half an hour ago if everything went smoothly, which means they should be close to rescuing Geoff and Jack by now if they haven’t already done so. All that should be left is losing the cops (if any are left to follow them), regrouping, and heading home. You close your eyes and picture all their faces, relieved and happy and finally all together again, and you smile. You know they’ll make it home to you, that you’ll be reunited with your ridiculous little family soon, and that you’ll finally be able to put all of this behind you.

       You imagine hugging all of them, telling them all how grateful you are. You don’t want to think about where you would be without the Fake AH Crew--if not dead, still holed up in that damn dark room, tortured mercilessly by goon one and goon two, having to suffer Tinkerbell’s obnoxious smirk of satisfaction whenever you screamed; you feel goosebumps break out across your arms at the memory.  _He’s gone now_ , you remind yourself, and it feels surreal to know you’ll never have to worry about him ever again. The idea of retiring flits through your mind, possibly running one last job to top off your cash and then dropping the whole Princess thing for good. It vanishes almost as soon as it appears, because you know that the Fakes would never quit--the stealing, the trouble, the danger, it’s in their blood. You’ve seen them jump back from the worst of situations, from you being kidnapped, from Michael being shot, from Geoff nearly dying, and you’ve seen the fire in all of their eyes, lit like a child about to unwrap their gifts on Christmas morning, as they plan their heists.

       You love them all so much, can’t possibly imagine your life without them even if it means you get shot a hundred times over.

       You tell yourself you’re going to be happy.

       In the back of your mind you remember how Geoff looked, lying in your lap covered in blood.

       You can’t possibly sit still, not when you know they’re out there doing everything they can to rescue their friends. _Your_ friends. You scour the building for a set of keys, because you know they have at least ten spare, stolen vehicles in the garage downstairs, but you can’t find any anywhere; Ryan must have hidden them all, the bastard, he really did plan for everything, didn’t he? You grab your cane, force yourself to your feet, and head for the garage anyway--you’re more than capable of stealing a stolen car, after all.

       They’re all locked, every single one of them, so you break one of the windows with your cane and begin hotwiring. You’ll apologize for the damage later...or maybe you won’t, because it wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t left you behind in the first place. Even though it’s been a while since you’ve had to steal a vehicle, you find it’s almost like riding a bike--you never forget--and soon, the engine purrs to life. You search for the closest hospital to the apartment complex where Geoff had been shot on your phone, because you know Jack and you know she wouldn’t have risked taking him any further than necessary. With the directions up and ready to go, you quickly lean over and pop open the glove box; inside it you find a handgun and a nasty, vibrantly colored clown mask. Predictable, but convenient.

       Just before you close the glovebox a photo flutters out and lands on the passenger-side floor. You pick it up and can’t help but smile at how ridiculous it is: Gavin, Ryan, Ray, and Geoff all dressed up in different yellow get-ups, smiling at the camera like fools as they plan to do god-knows-what. You tuck the picture into your pocket as you pull out of the garage and head to the hospital to be with your friends.

 

       It’s chaos, pure, unadulterated chaos. The hospital is absolutely surrounded by a litany of bright, flashing lights. A helicopter hovers in the nearby sky. Some high-ranking cop with a megaphone stands on the hood of one of the police cars and shouts at the doors: “We’ve got you surrounded! Drop your weapons, exit the building peacefully, and we can assure the safety of the entire crew!”

       You remember the earlier faith you had in them to make it through this plan smoothly and you scoff--they can literally do nothing without attracting the attention of all of Los Santos, can they? You forego the mask and tuck the handgun into your waistband as you park and exit your car far enough away that you simply look like another curious pedestrian. It’s almost too easy, with the help of your cane, to look totally innocent as you make your way around to the backside of the building because, as usual, the Los Santos police department devotes about 90% of their forces where the cameras will face and not where the bad guys will try to escape. Or, in your case, break in.

       You don’t bother wasting any bullets on the cops that patrol the back of the building--you bash one in the back of the head with your cane and the sirens out front blot out his shout of pain. From there it’s easy enough to drag him around the corner, strip him down, and suit up. You honestly look ridiculous wearing a police uniform that is about two sizes too large for you, but you’d be lying if you said it was the first time you’d done this; if it worked then, why wouldn't it work now?

       They don’t expect anything at all, and you wait until a few of them move to patrol the side of the building (which they should have had covered already, but, y’know, Los Santos) before you put a bullet between the eyes of the officer closest to the hospital entrance. The remaining officers immediately go into a panic after hearing the gunshot, but by the time they’re alerting the rest that there’s someone trying to break in you’re already slipping into the doors.

       It’s blindingly bright inside but you try not to focus on the burning of your eyes as you quickly limp your way down the hallway. Two cops round the corner and you’re ready for it, gun already cocked and aimed--what you don’t plan on is the fact that your eyes are fucking burning because of the stupidly bright fluorescent lights. You manage to hit one of them, but the other bullet whizzes by its target and lands in the wall. “Shit,” you curse, because now there’s a gun aimed at you and you really, _really_ don’t want to get shot again.

       Maybe this is why you fit in with the Fakes so well: you always manage to fuck something up, just like they do. You can only hope that your brief distraction is enough to help them escape the building, to get everyone to safety. You drop your hand to your pocket and finger the corner of the picture you placed there, a small smile gracing the edges of your lips as your eyes slip shut. All in all, you’ve had a pretty good run.

       You hear the gunshot.

       Then you hear a thump and a sputter that is most certainly not you.

       “You’re such a fucking idiot,” someone growls.

       Your grin almost splits your face as you open your eyes and find the Vagabond’s mask staring back at you. “You’re okay,” you breathe a sigh of relief.

       “You almost weren’t,” he says, marching towards you and roughly taking hold of your arm. “Why can’t you ever just cooperate? What fucking car did you break to get here?”

       “Uh, a not expensive one I hope?” You only receive a frustrated huff in reply. 

       He’s silent after that as he drags you down the hallway, his pace borderline too fast for you to keep up with while limping. He drags you by several dead bodies lying in pools of their own blood, each killed swiftly with a single bullet to the head.

       You have so many questions--how long they’ve been here, if everyone else is also okay, if Geoff is awake--but you have no time to ask before he basically slingshots you through an open door. You stumble forward, almost fall over but manage to stab your cane into the tile floor just in time to catch yourself. “What the fuck, Ryan?!”

       “I found the cause of the commotion,” Ryan grumbles as he steps into the room.

       When you lift your head you find seven sets of eyes staring at you. You look at all of them for a long time, counting them like you don’t really believe they’re all there, making sure none of them are bleeding or injured. Ray, smirk ever-present on his lips, sniper help tightly in his grasp. Michael, eyebrow cocked, dark eyes flitting amusedly between you and the masked man. Lindsay, outright laughing at the entire predicament, blue eyes bright with relief. Gavin, approaching you fast like he’s about to tackle you to the floor in his excitement to see you. An unfamiliar face standing at the side of the room where Gavin had just been, a woman with burgundy hair and adorably large glasses who is smiling at Gavin like a lovestruck teen. Jack, her smile wider than you’ve seen it in a while despite the situation, looking striking in a pale blue hospital gown. And finally Geoff, staring at you with a disbelieving little smile and watery eyes.

       You have to double-take, body numb to the feeling of Gavin squeezing you tight in a hug. 

       Your heart sings.

       Geoff, Geoff, Geoff--alive, _awake_.

       Your cane drops to the floor with a clatter and you nearly trip over cords, over your other friends, in your rush to get to him. Your hands shake, tears already running down your face, as you stand over his bed and reach up to brush his cheek. “You’re awake,” your voice cracks over the words. “You’re okay.”

       “I love you,” Geoff blurts, voice scratchy and raspy and ten other kinds of wonderful because you weren’t sure you were ever going to hear it again.

       “I--”

       The sound of another gunshot interrupts the tender moment as Ryan shoots an approaching cop. “I hate to break up such a touching reunion, but our window of escape is closing.”

       “How’d you get in here, luv?” Gavin asks.

       “Yeah and what the fuck are you wearing?” Michael points out.

       “We thought they had the whole place smegging surrounded.”

       “Are you kidding?” you laugh, wiping away your tears. “Are we familiar with the same LSPD? The back entrance was wide open--”

       “That’s what she said,” Ray interjects.

       “--why do you think Ryan was able to find me so fast?”

       “We need to move,” Ryan says. “They’ll be trying to regroup in the back, it should give us enough time to pick them off and get out of here before anyone else fucks something up.”

       “That was totally my plan, you’re welcome,” you say, earning a series of delighted laugh and a gentle squeeze of Geoff’s fingers around your own. “Not a fuck up if it works.”

       “She’s got a point,” Jack grins.

       Another bullet, another cop down. “I’m running out of bullets,” Ryan says, slowly getting more and more pissed off.

       “Well I’m not, you fucking noob,” Ray says matter-o-factly, stepping forward and pulling a full magazine as well as a fully loaded handgun out of seemingly nowhere and handing both to the Vagabond. “Come prepared next time, would ya? Idiot.”

       “Where do you even keep all that shit?” Michael laughs.

       “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he wiggles his brows suggestively.

       “I’d like to know,” Lindsay shoots right back, laying it on just as hard.

       You can’t seem to stop smiling at the whole stupid situation: surrounded by your friends, cracking lame jokes, potentially about to get shot or arrested or who knows what, but it just doesn’t matter because you feel so grateful to be with them.

       Ryan marches across the room suddenly and easily lifts Geoff right out of the bed.

       “Easy!” Geoff shouts, grabbing his hospital gown as it flaps open and nearly exposes him to the entire room. “This goddamn thing is fucking breezy!”

       The room erupts into joyous laughter, even Ryan cracks a smirk.

       “I'm cool with it,” you shrug and high-five Lindsay. 

       “Rye-bread is right,” Gavin says once everyone has calmed down. “We’re gonna get proper bunged if we don’t leave now.”

       “But what about, (y/n)?” the woman you don’t recognize asks, and you’re a little suspicious that she knows your name without anyone having mentioned it but you brush it off. “There’s no way she can run anywhere on that leg.”

       “She’s right,” you agree.

       “Oh luv, don’t worry about it, I’ll carry her out,” Gavin replies.

       “Bro have you looked at yourself lately?” Ray deadpans. “I’m surprised you can even lift your own head with the size of that fucking schnoz.” You don’t think you’ve ever heard Gavin make a higher-pitched, more offended-sounding squawk than the one he makes after that comment.

       “Well whatever we’re doing we need to do it now unless we all want to keep making jokes while getting fucked in the prison bathroom,” Michael says.

       “That's like my dream job, dude.”

       “I'm leaving, with or without you idiots” Ryan says, exiting the room with Geoff in tow.

       “I’ll carry (y/n),” Lindsay suggests. “What does she weigh, like three pounds soaking wet?” Before you can say anything, about how you’ll be fine on your own as long as someone has your back, the red-headed woman plucks you off the ground as if you weigh nothing and ungracefully tosses you over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She claps her hands, “Gentlemen, ladies, shall we follow Ryan before he kills us along with the cops?”

       “That's not what Ryan does when he gets angry, that's what Ryan does when he's mildly annoyed,” Jack points out.

       “All the more reason for him not to get angry then!”

 

       It’s honestly somewhat of a miracle how well the plan works. With both you and Geoff off your feet, you’re free to cover the back and take out any cops that decide to head in from the front doors; how Geoff manages to keep his aim so sharp after almost being killed _and_  recently waking from a coma you’re not sure, but you’re not about to complain. You manage to make it to the back doors without any problems, but the second the doors open a bullet flies through the air and nearly lands itself in Jack’s forehead.

       Gavin slams the door shut immediately.

       “Shit,” Ryan curses. “We gave them too much time.” You just barely catch the way his eyes narrow behind the mask, “This is all your fault.”

       “Did anyone see how many there were out there?” Ray asks.

       “At least six, I’d say,” Jack answers. “More, I’m sure, now that they know we’re headed this way. Fuck.”

       There's a long moment of silence as everyone tries to think of what the next move will be. “I have an idea,” you speak up. “Let me go out there.”

       “What? No. Why?”

       “I’m not sure if they know my face, but they won’t shoot right away if I step out to surrender,” you reason. “I can draw a gun pretty quick--if I can take any of them down, even just one, it’ll create a window for Ray to take down the rest from behind the door.” You look up at Ray from your hanging position over Lindsay’s shoulder, “I know you, I know you’re quick enough to do this.”

       “No,” Geoff shakes his head. “No, that’s fucking stupid. Even if you manage to make a distraction, it won’t last long enough for us to do anything, and if you open fire on them, they’ll kill you.”

       “Ray can do this,” you insist. At the ensuing silence your voice raises, panic beginning to take hold, “Look, they’re going to be here soon, they’re going to trap us here between a wall and a hard place, and if we don’t do something now this is it! There’s going to be no one left to rescue us this time! Please, let me do this for all of you,” you plead. “You’ve all helped save me before, let me repay the favor.”

       “You’ll die,” Ryan says quietly, voice muffled behind his mask but still strikingly sad.

       The weight of the words take a moment to sink in with everyone, all of their eyes on you as Lindsay lets you down. “I know,” you nod. “And I’d do it gladly if it means saving all of you.”

       “There has to be another way,” Geoff says, voice tight with emotion. “We’re not letting you--”

       The moment is interrupted by a loud blast outside, one that rattles the building and causes dust to shake free from the tiled ceiling and fall over your heads. The blast is immediately followed by gunfire from outside, though it sounds an awful lot like an automatic rifle and you know that it can’t possibly be the police.

       “What the fuck just happened?” Ray asks once the noises die down.

       “You’re free to come out!” someone shouts from outside, just beyond the door. “We blew up the far wing of the hospital, the cops are all headed there!”

       You know the voice. You pull open the door before anyone can protest.

       Cobra stands before you, fear and desperation in his eyes. “Please,” he says, falling to his knees and grabbing onto the edge of your shirt, “please protect me. I’m sorry about everything, about the set up, about what Tinkerbell did, but I needed the protection, okay? I fucked up with some pretty big names here and the only reason they--”

       You shoot him between the eyes before he can finish his pathetic begging, his blood splattering against your stomach and legs.

       Ryan scoffs, looking down at the lifeless body with amusement, then at you with a flicker of pride in his eyes. 

       “Did that seriously just happen?” Michael asks, dumbfounded. 

       “Coward,” Ryan spits. “I’m sure he thought that we’d be indebted to him if he saved us.”

       Geoff reaches for you, taking your hand in a grip that's nearly painful. “Don't ever fucking think about doing something stupid like that ever again.”

       You smile, "I promise." You reach into your pocket and pull out the picture, flashing it in front of his face, "Now, would you mind explaining this to me?"

       The sound of Geoff's laugh is like music to your ears. "Only if you explain what's up with the cripple cop getup, sweetheart."

        _Fuck_ , that sounds so nice. 

       “Seriously?!” Michael shouts as the crew begins to shuffle out of the building--all of the cops had been shot down by men who had fled the second you pulled the trigger and dropped their boss. “That’s it?! That’s how this ends?! What kind of bullshit is that!”

       You can’t help but laugh, giddy because you're all fine, because even though they fucked up and you fucked up, somehow, by some twist of fate, everything went smoothly in the end. “Don’t you think we’ve been through enough already?”

 

       You sit on a balcony with Geoff, two glasses of whiskey on the table between you, the sun rising over the Los Santos skyline. You watch as the sky steadily changes shades from pink to orange, listen to the sounds of birds chirping and the sweet hum of waves rolling onto the shore. You didn’t think you would ever have this again, would doubt it was actually happening if it weren’t for Geoff’s hand clutched tightly, solidly, in yours.

       “So Ryan won the bet,” he speaks, tone neutral. He sips his whiskey and turns his blue eyes on you. “He killed Tinkerbell.”

       You nod slowly, “He did.” You can’t help but feel a pang of worry--you had forgotten all about the bet, how could you be so stupid? How could _they_ be so stupid? After everything you’d been through over the past few days, _that_ was their concern? Your fingers tighten around his.

       “He told me to forget about it,” Geoff says, turning back to the sunrise, the golden hues reflecting in his tired gaze.

       “ _What?_ ” Is that even possible? Ryan--stubborn, insane, possessive Ryan--told Geoff to forget about the bet he was so adamant about making?

       “He told me that something you said that night changed his mind.” He gives your hand a small, reassuring squeeze. “At first I thought he was fucking with me, but he was very serious.” He looks at you like you’re more beautiful than every sunrise or sunset the earth has ever seen. “What did you say to change his mind?”

       You give him a small smile, “I told him how I feel.”

       “And how do you feel?” He leans forward on his elbow and you trace the familiar shapes of his tattoos with your eyes--you don’t bother trying to memorize the patterns because you know you’ll see them again every day for the rest of your life.

       "I feel like I'm happy you're okay. And I feel like you're a goddamn idiot for taking that bullet for me."

       "I'd do it again."

       "I know you would," you sigh. "And I hope you know I'd return the favor."

       He looks anxious, "Is that all?"

       You know what he wants, the same thing he's been wanting from you for so long now. You don't want to keep it from him any longer. “I feel like I love you,” you say--finally, _finally_. You don’t look directly at him for a moment, you just let the words sit there, finally out in the open. You chew at your lip nervously because, even though you know the feelings are reciprocated, that’s exactly what scares the shit out of you. You can’t even remember the last time you’ve felt so strongly about someone, cared so deeply about someone--almost losing him nearly destroyed you and you're not sure if you can handle it again. You're not sure if you can handle such a serious relationship with all the danger that surrounds your life. But you're also ( ~~completely, utterly positive~~ ) not sure that you can't live without him.

       None of that matters as soon as you finally look up at him. His smile is positively blinding, and all for you.

       “You finally said it,” he says happily. “And nothing interrupted us.”

       You slowly feel all the stress and worry seep away and you laugh. _Christ_ , you love him, you love him so fucking much that nothing else matters. “I love you,” you say it again, just because you can.

       He leans forward and kisses you.

       One of those kisses.

       “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooolllyyyy smooookes! It's all finished! I'm sorry it took a million years, and I hope you all love it! I contemplated making it dark and intense but I feel like my children needed a break so I went a happier, sillier route with this final chapter and I hope that's okay as an end for this long journey.
> 
> A huuuuge thank you to all of you, the support I've received on this story has truly inspired me to write more than I have in the last four years and that's honestly incredible. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	24. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (;

       A month has passed. 

       You’ve never been happier. 

       The crew takes a much needed break, deciding to lie low for a while before making their move and stealing back everything Tinkerbell took from them--along with the rest of what Tinkerbell had accumulated for himself over the years. During that time you spend nearly all of your days wrapped up in Geoff’s arms as you both recover from your injuries (or occasionally wrapped up with Geoff in much different, sweatier ways where clothes aren’t necessarily required). It’s absolute bliss.

       The first time you have to be away from him after the incident is when he has to go into the city for a meeting with some unnamed business associates who have agreed to help support the Fakes until they can get their feet back under them--Geoff trusts them explicitly, says he’s been friends with them since before he formed the crew, and insists on going alone.

       So you spend the day lounging around, playing video games and drinking with the rest of the crew, laughing and making fools of yourselves well into the night. You must fall asleep on the couch at some point because you wake up to a pair of arms lifting you off the ground. Your immediate instinct is to tense up in fear but it doesn’t take you more than a few seconds to recognize the arms--they’ve lifted you before, in a _ number  _ of different situations that you’d really rather not think about right now because it’s beginning to make your cheeks heat.

       “What are you thinking about?” a sinfully deep voice asks with a teasing lilt. 

       “Nothing,” you lie quickly. Determined to change the topic you yawn and stretch in Ryan’s arms, feeling your back pop a few times and your leg protest as your still-not-quite-completely-healed muscles pull just a little too far. “What time is it?”

       Ryan hums thoughtfully, “Almost three in the morning.” 

       “Why are you carrying me?”

       “Because you looked uncomfortable sleeping on the couch bent in half like you were.”

       Ah, so that explains the ache in your back. “That’s awfully nice of you,” you say through another yawn. You’re not sure if it’s your sleep addled brain or the alcohol still in your system that causes you to say what you say next, but either way you don’t regret it. “It was awfully nice of you to drop the bet you made with Geoff, too.”

       Ryan’s arms stiffen beneath you momentarily, as though he isn’t entirely comfortable with the topic of conversation. “I’m not heartless,” he says after a short pause. “I might be a possessive asshole, but not heartless. Besides,” he grins, “I’m on a murder break after killing about fifteen cops at the hospital that night.”

       You laugh at his attempt at a joke and snuggle a little closer to the warmth of his chest. “You’re a good friend.”

       “Yeah,” he agrees as he pushes open the door to your shared room with Geoff. “I am.” He sets you down in bed and pulls the covers over you. 

       “Ryan?”

       “Yes?”

       “It was fun, wasn’t it? Hectic, stupid, probably unhealthy, but fun, right?” 

       You can hear the smirk in his tone even though you’ve closed your eyes and resigned yourself to falling back asleep. “It was very fun.” 

       “But you never really loved me.” You don’t phrase it as a question. 

       “No,” he agrees. “But I wanted to.” He stays in the room for a few minutes longer, listening to the sound of your deep, even breathing as you sleep. He can so vividly remember the last time he watched you sleep, just before he woke you the night when he helped you torture goon two--he feels a rush of delight at the memory. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before he leaves the room.

       As he leaves he grabs the picture frame off your dresser, a picture of you and Geoff smiling brightly staring back at him.

 

 

 

 

       The grass cracks under the force of his fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll reply to comments tomorrow I'm so tired and I have to get up super early for work.  
> Love you all <3


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